


Thorns and Honey

by JennyS (JennySue)



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, Series references.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-01-01 00:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 125,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18325391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennySue/pseuds/JennyS
Summary: InA Powder of Yarrow:Guy of Gisborne was master at arms at Nottingham when he encountered the Lady Alix, Countess of Vézelay and beloved niece of Eleanor of Aquitaine. He had just returned from his fateful second journey to the Holy Land; she was bound for the royal abbey of Fontevrault in Anjou, where she would spend what little time was left to her.Against all odds, a strange kind of bond formed between them - with unforeseen consequences for Gisborne. Somehow he survived Vaisey and Isabella’s savage attack in the castle cellars and the destruction of the keep. He woke up far from England’s shores, to find himself in possession of an unexpected legacy.This is the story of what happened next…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks and gratitude to my tireless beta, M., and to P. for the encouragement.  
> I write for fun and not for profit. All rights reserved to Tiger Aspect

**Thorns and Honey.**

 

****_Mortal love is but licking honey from thorns._ Hali Meidhad.   
  


**Chapter One.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy, Spring 1195.**

It was in the springtime of the year that he came to Li Rossinholetz at last.

No urgent desire to take up this unexpected legacy drove him; merely a mild curiosity, born of too many hours of boredom that stifled him like the grasp of an iron hand on the throat. The old thirst for lands of his own was long gone, along with everything else that Life had taken from him.

And so he’d been on the road for some days now, as befit the uncertain stamina of someone who’d been brought so low. Taking his time, skirting the gloomier reaches of the Morvan forest, domain of outlaws and _routiers_ on the run from the rival armies of England and France - and where a man who no longer existed had been hidden away in a tumble-down hunting lodge through no wish of his own.

At last the stallion had picked up the pace, wending his way through the maze of lanes as if on familiar ground; bearing his rider through a joyous countryside where trees and hedgerows were misted with new green. The air rang with song from the swelling throats of birds, while the soft breeze  brushed his cheek with its warm breath. It carried the scents of herbs and wildflowers to his nostrils as it lifted the tangled strands of his long black hair, and yet what did it matter? He noticed none of it, for he was dead inside.

Indeed, he was a man who’d died more than once; first when he’d put his sword into the body of the woman he loved, and then again a year later in the bowels of the doomed keep at Nottingham, when his master and his own sister had done the same to him

An unfathomable time must have passed before he'd opened his eyes once more, finding himself neither in heaven nor hell nor limbo, but lying on a miserable pallet in an equally miserable hovel, and he’d cursed his perverse body long and hard for refusing to give in to the fact that this world was done with him, just as he was done with it. Then he'd turned his face to the wall, willing the darkness to take him for good.

Aeons elapsed. Empires rose and fell before he resurfaced, to meet the hostile gaze of a woman he’d watched on the ducking stool at Locksley pond with such lofty indifference to her fate. “What…?” was as much as he’d managed before his rusty throat closed.

“What are you doing here?” the hag had supplied helpfully, and sneered. “Death’s too good for a hairy, pig-witted fox turd like you, that’s what! They persuaded my daughter Rosa to have you brought here - against her better judgment, I might add. Now her youngest has taken the quartan fever, so you’ve been left to me.” And she’d ripped off his clotted dressings with a sadistic glee that was a twisted kind of mercy, since he fainted from the pain and knew nothing more for a good long while...

Now another day on the road was drawing to a close. The sunlight was mellowing to russet and amber as he caught his first sight of the town of Avallon, sitting its hill-top like a collar of coral and ivory beads on a mantle of green silk. He would go no further tonight. Already it was late to ask for directions; country folk sought their hearths at dusk, and if the stallion was by no means winded, he himself was stiff and sore. Vaisey’s sword-thrust to his belly had gone deep, though his sister’s dagger would have done for him by itself, had not the bulk of its poison been spent on his new-made brother’s neck.

The hedge-witch Matilda had not spared him her grief and anger that her beloved nursling Robin Hood had died of it, and he, the sheriff of Nottingham’s hated henchman, had not. Yet it had not prevented her and others unknown from doing a thorough job on him with their poultices and potions. And against all odds, he had clung on to his place in the land of the living, even if his self-awareness had not been around much to notice either way for several weeks.

The terrible wounds had all but healed during the winter months, though the scars still pulled with every rut and hummock in the road. He dismounted gingerly with a pat to his horse’s neck; then he went to sit with his back against the trunk of a tree, picking listlessly through the contents of his pouch. The heel of coarse bread was stale and hard, the wedge of goat’s cheese ammoniacal and over-veined with green. As for the wizened lump of an apple, even the stallion thought little of it; the beast lipped it from his palm eventually, chewing away with a martyred air before moving off to crop at some more appetising grass.

Giving up on the food, Guy of Gisborne sipped at the thin sour dregs in his costrel and began to think of composing himself for the night. The weather was mild and dry for the most part, the odd rain shower rare enough to be unworthy of his notice. He’d been sleeping under hedges ever since he’d left his hiding-place in the rundown hunting lodge, rolling up in a cloak with his pouch of belongings for a pillow and his sword to hand in case of thieves.

It had been a long autumn and longer winter; or perhaps it had just seemed that way, he thought, as he stared up into the darkening sky, where the first stars had begun to show in the gaps between the leaves. It had been no way near as cold as it was in Middle England and little snow had fallen, yet day after day the skies were low and pregnant with rain. The weeks of enforced inactivity had weighed heavily, for he’d been well enough by then to move around after a fashion, but without the ability to challenge himself. There was only so much wine you could drink before the loss outstripped the gain, and the same went for bedding the female help; which meant he’d been left with ample time to piece together what scraps of memory that were left to him and brood over what they might mean.

When Vaisey ordered him to Westminster and Prince John, it had been with the threat of execution hanging over him; yet he’d been sent back to Nottingham at the head of an army instead. The obvious explanation was that John had intended to play him off against the Sheriff for fun and profit... But was there someone else behind the move, someone with other, murkier motives; someone powerful enough to have had the Prince’s ear?

Whatever the case, the ploy had achieved the desired effect. He and Vaisey had been at odds after that, with the able assistance of his own sweet sister, who had popped up out of nowhere at the time like a vengeful harpy after blood. Soon the situation had deteriorated into open conflict, ending in that hand to hand wall-walk fight.

The thigh wound he’d received at the time had suppurated, hot lines of red creeping towards his heart. The castle physicians had bled him white and packed it with poultices of crushed snails and pigeon-dung, to no effect but putting him in greater danger of losing the leg. Whether this was due to their usual incompetence or any more sinister intent, it was impossible to know.

But then a nun had chanced by. On her way to Kirklees Abbey, or so she said, and  providentially a skilled herbalist - another who had studied at the feet of Hildegard of Bingen, perhaps, like the infirmarian of Fontevrault? Her potions of honey and mouldy bread had seemed no less bizarre, but they had succeeded where the pigeon dung had failed.

He had vague recollections of a nun at his bedside in Matilda’s hut as well; a pale face in a dark veil, hazily glimpsed between faints and screams of pain as she’d sewn up the gaping flaps of his shoulder and gut. When he’d thought of it later, he could have sworn he’d heard that calm voice before; felt the sure touch of the cold bony hands, anchoring him to this earth once more.

Then came the day when he’d knelt before the block, facing death at the headsman’s hands on the orders of a sister crazed with hate. Hood’s arrows had provoked the initial confusion, saving little Meg; his own deliverance had been mere coincidence - or was it? Who was to say the outlaw had been the only bowman in the crowd, there to deflect the deadly trajectory of the axe? And how would it have been possible for him to slip away through a courtyard crammed with guards and jeering townsfolk, hampered by a wounded girl in his arms; had not Isabella’s estranged husband made a miraculous escape from the madhouse wagon, turning up just in time to distract attention from his flight?

Armed parties should have been sent in pursuit in the normal course of things, yet he’d been left to wander the forest for days, half-mad and indifferent to his safety after Meg died, until Robin Hood showed up. Hood’s father had found them easily enough, and he was an old and ailing man.

Gisborne grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet, making for a thicket where he eased his bladder before sluicing his face and hands in a nearby streamlet that chattered over a gravel bed. The stallion nickered companionably as he limped back to his chosen spot under the hedge, still deep in thought as he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down in the gathering dark, picking his memories over for the hundredth time.

Hardly a day had gone by without some new suspicion to add to his store, leading him to the conclusion that he’d been spied on for months; his every move dogged, silently and covertly, cushioning him from his fate, and the realisation pleased him not a jot. On the contrary, it made his flesh crawl, the resentment burning deep within his gut.

Yet it was as nothing in the face of the greatest betrayal of all; for he’d made the choice to die down there in the castle bowels, consciously and deliberately, to save a life by taking the sword thrust meant for Robin Hood. He could still remember the euphoria that washed over him as he made his peace with himself and the world, taking the leap of faith into the unknown with a willing heart and the name of the woman he’d loved on his lips.

Only for his good death to have been stolen from him, without his knowledge or consent, and by persons unknown. Who could have been so cruel? To spirit his broken body away before the castle went up in flames, compelling him to live on in agony and crushing shame when he should have been safely dead and beginning the long process of atoning for his sins in Purgatory?

Initially he’d lacked the strength to put two and two together. It had taken the whole of his will-power just to keep on breathing, in and out, and only because not to do so hurt much more. But finally his mind was more or less his own again, and the stallion and the courier had come to the ruined lodge in the heart of the forest of the Morvan.

It had shocked him to the core to learn they were sent by the Queen Dowager of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She could have no love for the man who’d twice plotted to murder her favourite son. Yet who else would have the power and reach to have done all she did, down to cheating death of him and smuggling him across the sea to a secluded location in another land while he made his return to health? Then he’d read the three-word note from the courier’s bloody pouch, and it all made a sick kind of sense.

_Kamar al Akmar…_ The rider of the ebony horse, from the book of Saracen tales.

He’d read those words before in that selfsame careful script; a note hidden inside the jewelled book itself, as he stood on the steps of a small manor in the shire of Nottingham.

Curiosity had driven him to explore the other contents of the pouch, finding the will that listed his name and the legacy that was to be his. For a moment, his spirits had lifted at the thought of lands of his own - a blessing so long desired, within his grasp at last. Sober reflection had reminded him that hope was a cruel will o’ the wisp for a man like him; he was too broken for the old dream to become a reality.

Which was just as well, since his soul was too damaged; too warped by the past to make anything more of the bequest than the nightmare regime of Locksley all over again. Here you are, it seemed to taunt him. Your fondest wish in the palm of your hand. Take it and learn how you will never amount to more than a blight on this earth.

Yet here he was on the Avallon road in spite of it all, like a fairground poppet dancing to her tune; as if her ladyship of Vézelay directed the course of his life from beyond the grave. How dare you! he thought for the thousandth time, balling his fists inside the folds of his cloak in impotent rage. What are you to have done this to me?

But it had been a long day, on too little food. He was too weary of mind and body to sustain his anger and he slipped down towards sleep, lulled by the susurration of the stream and the rush of the wind in the trees.

_Have you considered_ , a voice whispered into his last conscious thoughts, _that perhaps this torment is a mercy for you and me? A chance to pay for some of our sins in this world rather than the next?_

Close by, the stallion snorted softly and stamped, as if to register his own scepticism for the sentiment; while Gisborne calculated that he would have atoned for no more than a couple of hours of his seven years of henchman’s duties this far.

And then he was asleep.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Flecks of early sunlight lay like a scattering of coins on the darkness; a pale gold largesse spangling the stable walls and floor. Aubrey de Saint Aubin slipped noiselessly inside, inhaling the delicious odours of horse and warm straw.

Maman had strictly forbidden them to take Blancheflor out today, for reasons known only to herself. But it was a bright spring morning, much too fine to spend cooped up indoors for child or beast. No need, then, to thwart Thierry’s efforts to heave the old saddle onto the mare’s twitching back and liberate her from the hitching ring.

As long as it was clear that the blame was all his.

“You’ll catch it when she sees you, you know,” Aubrey remarked sententiously, scuffing a booted foot over the straw.

“Scaredy cat! How will she find out? We’ll be back before she’s awake.” Thierry grinned with the boundless optimism of his seven years, stroking the soft muzzle as a long silken tail the colour of new milk whisked nervously at the other end. “She’s bored inside. Can’t you see how restless she is? A gallop will do her good.”

His interlocutor chewed at a lower lip. _Scaredy cat_ was doubly insulting, coined as it had been for lofty retorts to a younger sibling; it turned the world upside down to have it thrown back in your face.

Thierry had always been an annoying brat, with as much common sense as one of the beetles he delighted in collecting. Today though, for once in his short life, he was right. Maman had been scooting about all yesterday as if her skirts were on fire, chivvying them and making ominous noises about _cleanliness_ and _tidiness_ and _best clothes_ , leaving them both as bored and restless as the mare. Far better to pull on their oldest shirts and breeches and escape to the woods and fields, away from her critical eye.

But now it was time to assert who was in charge. “I’ll ride her out of the yard, and you can sit pillion. You always manage to tickle her ribs with your bare feet and make her wicker; then the whole household will be up, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Not fair. It was my idea!” came the sulky response. “Besides, I can’t help if I don’t like wearing boots. Ham never does.”

“Hamelin’s a peasant. He doesn’t have to,” Aubrey decreed; yet not without a twinge of envy for the freedom this implied - a world far removed from the threat of cleanliness and best clothes.

And for once in a long series of escapades, most best forgotten, their luck was in. The yard was shadowed by over-tall trees, the ground still soft after last week’s showers. The mare’s hooves made no sound as she picked her dainty way to the gate; nevertheless, they held their breath until they were riding down the lane, where their caution shifted to a scan of the route ahead. Here the sun had beaten down, hardening the going, and the ruts were deep. If their stolen charge should stumble and damage a leg, there’d be hell to pay indeed.

Blancheflor was their mother’s pampered palfrey, long of mane and tail and elegant of gait, the envy of the neighbourhood as far as Avallon and beyond. She had spirit and stamina too, carrying both children almost nonchalantly, as if she bore nothing but a pair of feather cushions on her back. “Far too grand to be hidden away in the country,” Mistress Hawise had sniffed with ill-concealed envy. Yet the mare would never be sold to the greedy-eyed _prévost_ ’s wife; not at any price, however much the solar roof leaked when it rained, or the outbuildings rattled in a high wind. She’d been a gift from Maman’s dearest friend.

Cocks were still crowing as they skirted the village and eased up the bluff beyond. The wind was often sharp hereabouts, their lips seeming to sting with salt spray, though Father Joscelin said this was impossible. They were right in the heart of Burgundy here and many days’ travel from the coast. Still, it was good to imagine they had climbed to the mast-head of the king’s _esnecca,_ the swiftest ship in the fleet, and were looking out across the water to foreign lands.

Everything looked flat and unreal from up here, like a painted page from one of Maman’s books. The vines rolled like green waves over the gentle slopes below, with the merest trace of pink showing here and there; roses planted at the end of each row, so old Mathieu the vintner had told them, the tender bushes providing an early warning of insect pests.

To their left lay the town of Avallon on its higher hill, a distant island kingdom of jumbled red roofs. Nearer at hand, the steep blue slates of home floated like an upturned keel, with the hidden reefs of village thatch lurking half-glimpsed among the foam of waving trees.

“Come _on_!” Thierry’s shrill voice urged from behind. “Blancheflor wants to gallop.”

Aubrey sighed and nudged at the mare’s flanks with insistent boot-heels. There was a good clear stretch of meadow at the foot of the hill. Then they could cool down by following the river for a while. Sometimes there were otters, or at least a kingfisher to watch, knifing through the clear water like a small blue arrow in search of fish..

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .

  **Chapter Two.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

He had been here before, and much too often.

The demons had tired of him after he’d died for the second time, so he’d taken to coming here instead - lost and far from home, adrift on a sea of blood and hot sand, amalgam of all the battlefields he’d known. A foetid reek clogged his nostrils, rendering it near impossible for him to breathe; and meanwhile the battle raged on around him - the shouts, the hoarse commands... The sickening clash of metal upon metal and the piteous screams of dying beasts and men.

Arrows hissed through the burning air in a deadly rain. They were skittering harmlessly off his mail for now, but it wouldn’t be long before the bowmen found their range and he was skewered like the bleeding chunks of mutton they roasted at their fires. He reached out an arm, fingers scrabbling for the strap of his shield. And then with a sickening lurch of the gut he remembered that he’d lost it…

No, had it stolen from his tent…

No, stood open-mouthed in horror as a berserker hacked the thin lime wood to splinters with a giant axe…

Rough hands seized him, pinning his arms to his side. He sucked in a ragged breath, struggling, kicking, fighting for his life as he was dragged up, exposing his breast to the killing thrust…

And plummeted out of sleep with a jolt, his eyes shooting open on the chiaroscuro of daylight filtered through a heavy woollen weave.

He’d been fighting with his cloak again.

He tore the smothering folds from his face, his body stinging where the phantom arrows had met their mark, the sounds of warfare echoing inside his head. He groaned, cursing the sick pounding of his heart as he heaved himself to an elbow … to find he was no longer alone. A pair of bedraggled urchins was watching him from a wary distance, clods of earth clutched in their grimy fists.

Peasant scum! They’d been pegging those divots at him!

Gisborne came to his feet, shaking a rain of soil and small stones from his clothes and hiding the wince of pain as his scars complained. The screams of dying men were still clawing at his brain as he strode towards them, itching to box their impudent ears,

Amazingly, the taller of the two stood his ground, white faced and trembling, but defiant. The runt was possessed of even less good sense; he charged like a wild piglet out of a bramble thicket, wind-milling his arms. “Get it away from her,” he bawled, his berry-smirched mouth square with fury in his crimson face.

Gisborne side-stepped automatically, reaching out to seize his puny assailant by a shoulder and then an ear. The boy squirmed futilely, trying to land a kick on his shins. “Make it _stop_!” he repeated doggedly through his frantic tears. “It’s hurting her!”

Only then did it register that the shrieks and screams of battle were no echo from his dreams. Head back, mane flowing, the stallion was trumpeting his triumph as he availed himself of the favours of a dainty mare.

He had to admire Ben’s taste, he mused, taking a moment to watch the powerful muscles bunch and flex under his horse’s scarred black hide. The mare was an elegant creature, her breeding obvious in every line of her body and intelligent head. There was an admirable streak of fire about her, too, in the way she pricked her ears and pushed her milk-white quarters back strongly, welcoming the stallion’s thrusts.

Meanwhile his prisoner had redoubled his efforts to escape, but he was panting now, beginning to tire. Gisborne held onto him, observing the equine proceedings with indulgence, and not a little wry amusement as well. Had similar thoughts crossed the animal’s mind when he’d watched his rider tumble a wench on his stable straw?

An indignant shout shattered his rare mellow mood. “Leave him alone, you beast!” The older boy was dancing in agitation now, but he was canny enough to keep his distance while he let his insults fly. “Don't you know it’s cowardly to pick on someone who's not your own size.”

The late unlamented Sheriff of Nottingham’s one-time enforcer countered this puny challenge with a sneer. “Come here and make me,” he taunted, hefting his still-struggling captive under one arm. “If you think your two against my one are good enough odds." He shot a meaningful glance in the direction of the happy couple. "You’d do better to make yourself scarce while you have the chance.  _Don't you know_ horse-stealing is a hanging offence?”

The young wastrel pushed his sandy mop out of his eyes, smearing his freckled forehead with grime. ‘I will not!” he hurled back. “Not till you let my brother go. And for your information, Blancheflor belongs to us.”

A likely story, when guilt sat so heavily on the callow features! Gisborne took a threatening step towards the boy, grinning tightly to himself as a clod of earth fell from each grubby paw. Bravado was cheap at a safe distance. Yet once again the child made no attempt to flee; a calculating look had come into his grey-green eyes, a swift weighing up of options rarely seen in someone of peasant. Suddenly he'd stooped to the ground, fumbling at the grimy tatters of his shirt and straightening with lightening speed.

“You little _arsewipe_!”

Gisborne cursed roundly as a shower of small stones from a sling-shot stung the exposed flesh of a wrist. It was surprise rather than the minimal pain that made him relax his grip, freeing his captive to stumble over to his partner in crime. They stood there together, fists on hips, though common sense dictated they should have melted away into the bushes at once.

He folded his arms across his chest and contemplated the insolent pair with a face like a thundercloud. “Clear off, the pair of you,” he growled, irritation and incredulity warring for precedence in his mind. “Are you asking to have your scrawny necks stretched?”

“We told you before. Blancheflor’s ours.” His erstwhile prisoner jutted a grubby chin at the horses, his fair, almost white forelocks flopping into his eyes. Ben had taken his pleasure by now and was peaceably nipping at the mare’s neck. “You’re the one who’s trying to steal her,” the boy persisted as both beasts returned to the day’s other important business; that of cropping the lush spring grass. “You and that great black bully of yours.”

Gisborne’s narrow mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “Is that so?” he purred, striding over to seize the mare by the halter. “Then you won’t mind coming with me while I take her back where she belongs.”

The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances at that. Gisborne grinned again, relishing their dismay. Whatever the mood of their lord, they could expect to be punished, and heavily, the loss of a hand involved at the very least. Yet the mutilation of children was one step too far for him; despite his unsavoury past, his intention was to rid himself of unwelcome company as he sought the rightful owners of the mare. He had no use for the beast himself, but she was a fine creature and it was not as if he had anything better to do with his time.

To his surprise, they nodded slowly and reluctantly, volunteering to guide him to the manor they served. On their head be it. He’d given them every chance to make themselves scarce.

Gisborne shrugged and went to retrieve his few belongings; then the small party moved off, the great black stallion falling in biddably behind.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

It had been a soul-destroying day of relentless toil, yet she had still to wake.

Jehane twitched uneasily, deep in dreams, as a narrow sunbeam probed the shutters, making a lazy way over the bare stone flags towards the bed...

She was bone-weary and sick with frustration; each time she swept out the soiled rushes, the wind blew them back, mingling the old with the new on the solar floor. Abandoning the task, she ran to the dower chest to take out the napery instead, but mice as big as cats jumped out, scurrying away on clicking claws, leaving her to survey the ruin of the precious linen with dismay.

The food!

Already it was past noon, and she’d forgotten about the food! Yet somehow the kitchen had turned into the old chapel at Ghent, smelling of stale incense and dust, and the fire blinked sullenly on the hearth, refusing to burn hot and clear. As if that were not enough, the flour bin was crawling with fat red weevils. She crammed on the lid and stepped back, shuddering - only to look on in horrid fascination as a plucked chicken slid from the trestle, skittering naked and headless across the flags on gnarled yellow feet...

The sunbeam crawled onto her face, and she sneezed, waking herself with a start. The morning was already well advanced, she realised with an unpleasant swoop and dip of her insides. And meanwhile, the tasks she’d been battling in her sleep all night were waiting to be done all over again.

It was a fine time to be left on her own, she thought dispiritedly, heaving herself up on her pillows and compressing her lips as the memories returned. Yet there was no way she could have begrudged Berthe to the her ailing friend.  It was the time of year to pinch off the side shoots that sapped the vigour of the vine; heavily pregnant, Peronete had insisted on joining her man at his work - for a breath of air, she’d said. She’d tripped and fallen and the babe was bent on coming before its time; her husband had rushed over yesterday morning as she was breaking her fast, panicking with the news

This wasn’t their first child and the village wise woman would be with her; nevertheless, three little ones would be looking on as two lives hung in the balance, unable to understand what was happening. Jehane had waved the worried serving girl off to help with the stricken family, promising to look in when she could, though little of her knowledge encompassed childbirth or its aftermath. Her own acquaintance with the healer’s art had been gleaned from an elderly soul who had learned her trade in the masculine world of the tourney circuit.

A candle would not have burned down half a notch before Tomas, the _prévost_ of Avallon’s skeletal clerk, arrived with a note. His mistress would call on her after None the next day, bringing with her a dear friend. All the way from the court at Dijon, and tirewoman to the Duchess Theresa herself, the scented sliver of parchment had gushed.

Jehane sighed and stretched her stiff spine, grateful that the outside work was done; neatening the yard and kitchen garden, weeding the tubs of flowers that stood by the door to disguise the general shabbiness of the house. Finally she'd helped  Hamelin from the village to dodge round the irritable Blancheflor’s hooves while they set the stable to rights; it would be bad enough for my lady from Dijon to stable her horse in a ramshackle country barn, without finding herself and her valuable palfrey mired to the hocks in stale straw.

Her eyelids were heavy and sore as she swung her legs to the floor, her feet reaching for her soft slippers - and failing to find them. Now she remembered! They’d been pressed into service last night as troop carriers for old Duke William’s invasion fleet, as enacted by a young boy’s bag of wooden knights. Sighing again, she retrieved her old kirtle from the foot of the bed and pulled it on; then she trudged barefoot to the garderobe, wincing at the chill stone of the floor. At least the children had slept in for once, she told herself, as she freshened her sleep-stained face and hands with the lees from last night’s water jug. Usually they were up with the dawn, clattering about the place, asking endless questions and generally getting into everything. She would have a rare clear run at her cornucopia of tasks.

Crossing to the window, she flung open the shutters, letting in the new day on the chamber’s stale air. Blancheflor too was blessedly quiet this morning, she reflected, stealing a moment to rest her elbows on the sill and glance up at the speedwell-blue sky. Her gentle mare had been transmogrified into a harridan since she’d come into season, kicking peevishly at her stall and whinnying vociferously. She’d never known her to be this restless before; Nature must be catching up on her, making her ache to fill her womb.

Here was another source of anxiety to add to her store. Blancheflor was her only mount; the delicate creature could not be spared for breeding, always supposing the funds for a stud fee had been there after the latest round of taxes had been scraped together and paid.

Unless she accepted offers of help from quarters where she had no wish to be beholden, that was... Which returned her unwilling thoughts to her guest of the day. Hawise of Flavigny’s covetous black eyes had been fixed on the mare since her arrival in the vicinity, hot on the heels of her husband's appointment as _prévost_ of Avallon.

If only Blancheflor was all the disagreeable woman had in her sights; she’d been ruthless in her determination to cultivate the Lady of Vignoles. Jehane herself had no delusions of grandeur; she was a mere clerk’s daughter who’d made what seemed to be a good marriage at the time. Ironically, she would have welcomed a _confidante_ of any rank; someone to laugh with and share her burdens and joys. She’d been barely twelve years of age when Lys had been bundled off to be wed, leaving her alone in their gloomy solar in Ghent.

The loss had left a gaping hole in her life, impossible to fill with infrequent letters and the few brief times they had come together in the flesh. A tide of emotion swept through her now as her she recalled the rushed hours of their last meeting; Lys had been passing through on her way to inspect her lands across the Narrow Sea before retiring to the royal abbey of Fontevrault to await the end. The bitter intelligence had broken Jehane’s heart, distraught as she was already with the children gravely ill with the _rougeole_. It haunted her nights that she’d heard nothing since, though common sense insisted that the companion of her childhood must have succumbed to her malady by now.

Often she'd considered sending to the abbey for news, but circumstances had conspired against her; some crisis was always brewing at Vignoles. Now again for the thousandth time she told herself that she would be informed in due course, if news there was. Meanwhile she must put the matter out of her mind. While a shadow of doubt remained, there was still room for hope.

As for Hawise of Flavigny, her overtures were less pure than the friendship she'd shared in that solar in Ghent. Jehane knew she was nothing to the _prévost’_ s wife; a mere counter on the tables board, there to be placed in the other woman's debt then used as a stepping stone to the nobility; minor of course, but who knew what could happen, given a little money and time.

For it was the meddlesome creature's oft-expressed opinion that the Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin was in sore need of her services. Not only did she lack a comfortable income, she was without that chief asset in life, a husband; and as luck would have it she, Hawise, was possessed of a wide selection of male family members who would be delighted to oblige.

“Just look at the state of this place, my dear lady,” she’d commented once with a sniff, indicating one of the manor’s many shortcomings with a wave of a beringed hand. “If you struggle on alone like this, you will be reduced to penury.”

Jehane had valiantly suppressed a sniff of her own. In her experience, a husband was one more thing to struggle with. A rich and generous lord, more often away from home than not, might be the solution to her problems, but she was in no position to aspire to so grand a match. Indeed, she’d been faced with a struggle there and then as she masked her irritation, asserting with a tinkling laugh that she managed perfectly well by herself, then despising herself later for the sickly sweetness of her tone.

And in many respects, manage she did. She relished the freedom of being her own mistress. No unannounced influx of noisy male guests, no heavy meals to provide at inconvenient times; no one to tell her how to govern her household and her children, however ignorant or careless they might be of such matters themselves. Soon the moment she’d been awaiting so impatiently would be at hand; the vines Robert had brought from Beaune, then ignored so cavalierly, would come into their own, and the manor would pay its way at last.

Now though, she had much to do if she was to play the gracious hostess this afternoon. Hawise on her own was a challenge; the woman was incapable of recognising the most obvious snub. With a well-to-do lady from Dijon in the mix, Jehane would rather walk on hot coals than betray a weakness for the wretched woman to point out. Pride was a sin, she knew, but she had precious little else to stiffen her spine.

Reluctantly, she moved away from the window and the fine clear air of the new day. The solar was waiting to be freshened and decked with generous jugs of flowers; the best silver and napery was to be found and gone over, though moths and tarnish would be her enemies here rather than the giant rodents of her dream.

Finally, an array of choice delicacies must be readied, the kind to silence the comments of a haughty _prévost'_ s wife and tempt the jaded appetite of a lady from the ducal court. Some local delicacy, _gougères_ perhaps, bite-sized and freshly made, and tiny curd tartelets topped with fruit. The children had come home with a great basket of strawberries the day before, and she'd silenced her conscience with the thought that the berries would have gone to waste in any case.

Ham would have milked the cow by now or the beast would be complaining. Eggs first then, for the _gougères_ and the delicate curd for the tarts. Then she would start on the pastries, switching to cleaning duties while the crumbly _pāte sablée_ shells baked. On occasions like these she almost blessed the dreary years at the Flanders court; missing Lys’ company, she’d hung around the palace kitchens for lack of something to do, though nowadays she usually supervised the proceedings rather than make the things herself.

Running lightly down the stairs, she scooped a crust from the bread-crock, still chewing on the half-stale morsel as she reached the kitchen door and pushed her feet into Berthe’s abandoned clogs.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

As they walked, the tow-headed runt let fly with a barrage of questions in a thick Burgundy patois that had not become apparent before. His brother followed the one-sided exchange with a cool reserve, punctuated by an occasional roll of the eyes.

“Where be you headin’ then? Out ‘long Avallon way?” Seemingly the young ne'er-do-well bore no grudge for his abused ear, though it still throbbed visibly in an alarming shade of ruby red.  “You be a stranger to these parts, I wager. We 'baint seen you hereabouts before.”

Gisborne gestured dismissively. He had no intention of explaining himself to a couple of unwashed peasant brats. Their clothes were not without traces of former refinement- a well-set sleeve, a neat seam, the charity of the local lady of the manor no doubt; but they'd not seen a wash tub in months, any colour they’d once possessed running together in shades of mud and rust. A trodden-down pair of boots completed the outfit for the older boy, though his brother was triumphantly barefoot, the grime of ages caked between his toes.

”Do that be a real knight’s sword?” The interrogation was relentless. “Bet you’ve lopped off a fair few heads with that.”

“Thierry!” His sibling cut him off with him a murderous glance, and for a blessed time silence reigned.

Their route took them along the river bank, their foot-falls muted by leaf-mould and soft earth. Here the Cousin wound a sinuous way through a tunnel of trees, creaming over hidden rocks and playing pleasant music over pebbles in the shallows. There was the secret piping of birds in the branches, and the rustle of wild things in the brush; while here and there fish rose in the green water, to the lure of swaying willow-fronds and fallen hawthorn blossoms.

“Brocks be livin’ hereabouts  badgers, you'd call 'em,” ‘Thierry’ confided. “Sometimes there be raa-bbits too.”

“And sometimes rabbit stew, if you happen to be good with a sling-shot,” Gisborne remarked pointedly. “Poachers too, are you, as well as horse-thieves?”

The taller urchin met the accusation with a withering look from under his sandy thatch. His brother merely pulled a face, admitting cheerfully that if they happened to be stealin' he’d go for a nice fat chook. Choosy peasants they bred round here, as well as uppity! They’d soon lose their sauce when confronted by the rightful owner of this valuable piece of horseflesh, Gisborne told himself, clicking his tongue to the mare. He'd intended to send them off with a boot to the backside as soon as they neared their destination, but his sympathy for their situation was fast draining away.

Soon the track curved away from the rushing ribbon of water; here the lane divided, the boys turning down the left fork with a resigned air. Gisborne followed with the mare, going some way before he noticed that the stallion had abandoned them. A swift glance to the rear revealed that the wayward animal was fast disappearing down the other fork, a distant nicker floating to his master’s ears.

Gisborne stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, but to no avail.

Christ on the cross!

Ben had just taken his pleasure in a most enjoyable way- something he’d not done himself in any shape or form for weeks. What had induced the beast to abandon the prospect of second helpings? He seized the older boy by the arm and jabbed a finger in the direction of the disappearing horse. “What godforsaken pimple on the Devil's arse lies down there?”

The brat wrinkled his freckled nose at the cursing, squinting up through his tangled hair. The appraising look in the narrowed grey-green eyes set a pulse throbbing at the corner of Gisborne’s jaw. What gave a lowly peasant’s get the right to be so dainty? The little weasel must have encountered his share of strong language in the course of his miserable life. “Another manor,” the boy was saying, off-handedly, indicating their own fork with his free hand. “We go down here.”

“Happen we do,” was his own grim retort. “But not before we’ve persuaded that brainless beast of mine that he’s headed the wrong way.”

“It's your own fault." His captive had taken advantage of a lapse of concentration on Gisborne’s part to skip nimbly away. “You shouldn’t have left off his tack. A wonder no one’s stolen him," he added with relish. “Letting him roam loose like that. Unless it was _you_ that stole him of course!”

Vaisey’s feared henchman blinked, unable to believe the unholy cheek of this devil’s spawn. “He was given to me,” he snarled. “By someone I …” He paused, his throat moving, incensed that he’d been goaded into speaking without thinking, and to someone who had no right to explanations of any kind. The months of sickness and isolation must have left him more vulnerable than he’d thought.

But before he could sink deeper into the trap of dwelling on the past, the irrepressible Thierry had piped up. “To my mind, he don’t think much of you,” he observed with minimal tact. “Gallopin’ orf like that. Figured he’d do better over to Rossy-nolls, mebbe.”

And for once the insult went unnoticed. Gisborne’s heart hammered and stalled, robbing him of all other thought. Rossy-nolls! Was this his crude peasant pronunciation of the unfamiliar Occitan?

Li Rossinholetz… Nightingales… The legacy he’d rejected out of hand throughout the dreary winter weeks; only for it to slink back into his mind when the finer weather came around, piquing his curiosity against his will. This would explain Ben's skittish behavior; the animal must have found himself on familiar ground and headed joyously for home.

Was he here at last, within a stone’s throw of an inheritance he’d neither expected nor desired? Given a choice, he might well have walked away without a backward glance. Now the stallion had taken it on himself to decide they had business there. Scowling, he trudged in pursuit of the runaway, the budding horse thieves at his heels.

In time the mellow russet tiles of a conical roof appeared, floating high above a sun-shot green skirt of trees. Finally, they arrived at a solidly constructed five-barred gate; here Gisborne halted, collecting himself as the few dry scratchings of a clerkly hand took on solid form.

The manor house of Li Rossinholetz was small but sturdily built. Foursquare walls of honey-coloured stone supported a steep pitched roof, clad in the same umber tile visible from the lane; a round tower adorned the far end, its pointed cap sharp against the blue of the sky, and the whole was set about with mature trees. Neat out-buildings bordered the yard, where the smooth-raked surface was strewn with fine white gravel from some nearby stream; Gisborne noted the refinement with the idle thought that there’d be no quagmire of mud here when the weather was wet.

Yet for all these appointments, the usual signs of life were absent; the barns were silent and empty, no fowl nor domestic livestock in evidence, while up at the house, doors and windows were shuttered and barred. Of the stallion, there was no trace.

“Come on!” ‘Thierry’ pushed eagerly at the half-open gate. “No one’s about. 'Bain’t no one lived here for years.”

“How would you know?” Gisborne probed. “It’s well-kept for a derelict property.”

The urchin clutched at his belt and bounced on his heels, glancing about him with a proprietary air. “We comes here all the time, a’course. You can play a fine old game of forts in the barns, and there’s always good things to eat in the garden - strawb’rries at the moment,” he confided, licking his lips. 

“ _Thierry_! “ His brother took charge of the conversation before the reckless little squirt could condemn himself still further from his own dirt-stained mouth. The guileless lack of concern for his well-being was breathtaking. “People come in from the village,” the older boy explained, changing the subject with a skill beyond his years and rank. “And there’s a steward here most days, but he’s away. His favourite daughter’s just had a baby.” The grubby face twisted with the distaste of all small boys - and most grown men - for the subject of women’s matters. “ She nearly died of it too.”

The gate swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and they pushed into the yard, their footsteps crunching on the gravel stones. The stallion emerged from a stable at the sound of their arrival, snorting dispiritedly and mumbling a stray stalk of straw between his mobile lips.

The source of his displeasure soon became clear; the manger was empty. Yet he showed no inclination to follow when the small party turned to leave again. The beast was well enough where he was for now, Gisborne judged; the trough was full of clean rainwater and there was no shortage of lush grass in the grounds. There was shelter too if Ben was feeling delicate after his exertions and it happened to rain. As for any further attempts at horse-thievery today, he pitied anyone rash enough to try.

“Chances are he feels right at home,” the younger urchin offered as they made their way back to the fork.

No doubt he does, Gisborne thought darkly, giving the mare’s bridle a gentle tug to discourage her interest in a particularly succulent spray of hawthorn leaves. He'd better not get used to it.

Silence fell again as they ambled on and the sun climbed the spring sky; it shone through the blossom-laden hedgerows, filling the narrow track with soft green light. Little breezes silvered the undergrowth and wild flowers starred their path with yellow and white, adding their fragrance to the scent of grasses crushed underfoot. An odd kind of contentment stole over him, a feeling he was in no hurry to analyse. It was enough at present to live in the moment, without thought for the past or what was to come.

 _Life is cruel,_ a distant echo reminded him. _Yet there are still moments worth living throu _gh..._. _

For now he had nowhere to be and nothing to do. There was only this April morning and the rare sense of release it brought.

Before long they were passing a clutch of small thatched cottages, clumped round a village green, the pond a blue enamel shard dotted with the white and brown dots of geese and ducks. An old man was sharpening a mattock at his door; he looked up, raising a gnarled hand to the urchins as they passed and shaking his hoary head when he noticed they were not alone. He spoke a few words to a woman who emerged from inside, wiping her hands on her apron. She shrugged resignedly when she caught sight of the little party, then went back inside to her tasks.

From here a rutted lane led to the gates of a small manor house; rundown in comparison with his own, Gisborne noted, the proprietary thought taking him unawares. Weeds tufted the margins of ramshackle outbuildings; the yard was a sea of half-dried mud, while the blue slate roof was pockmarked with missing tiles. Yet despite the signs of neglect, this was a living home. Smoke issued from a hole in what must be the kitchen roof, to judge from the festoons of drying produce that hung from a windowsill. The shutters were ragged and silvered with age but they were open, and tubs of red and yellow gillyflowers stood beside the main door in an last-ditch effort of respectability. Animal life was in evidence too. A milch-cow lowed from a nearby barn; hens crooned somewhere and a rooster strutted along a moss-covered wall, crowing as he raised his scarlet comb and shook his long green tail-feathers at them.

Within moments the pair of budding outlaws had disappeared behind the house, calling loudly...  Manon, was it? Some such name. Gisborne was left holding the mare’s bridle, his earlier impressions confirmed.  Burgundian peasant brats were either born without brains or the instinct for self-preservation... or both. Not content with returning like dogs to their vomit to the scene of their crime, they’d rushed to draw attention to themselves.

On their heads be it, then. Or merely their hands if their lord had had a good day at the hunt. Gisborne shrugged his shoulders and walked on, leading the mare – to be met by a sight for sore eyes indeed. The two young ruffians were off to one side, hopping from one foot to the other in their impatience to be acknowledged, while a serving girl - this Manon, no doubt- burrowed in the bowels of a chicken-coop.

Her sweetly rounded rump jiggled enticingly as she sifted the straw for the last of the eggs. Was the rest of her as pert as her behind, Gisborne wondered, his slumbering interest aroused for the first time in… He couldn’t remember how long. The morning was looking up. The stallion was not the only one whose luck was in, it seemed.

Grinning appreciatively, he strode over to the inviting sight. 

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous- Avallon.**

Two… three… five…

Jehane paused in her count, hearing voices behind the indignant clucking of the hens. The Holy Mother lend her patience! The children must be up, and hungry. Cradling the still-warm eggs in the folds of her kirtle, she shuffled forward on her knees, searching the farthest nooks and crannies of the coop. A couple more and there’d be enough left over to mix with milk and honey and the rest of yesterday’s bread for _pain perdu_ …

_Crack!_

Her heart leapt and juddered. A resounding slap had stung her vulnerable rear.

She let out a muffled skreel like an angry cat in a sack, and it was all she could do not to sprawl headlong into the straw, crushing her fragile cargo as she fell.  She extricated herself from the fusty confines in an undignified scramble, her heart still knocking against her ribs. Her shock turned to outrage as she knelt up at last, to find a dark and looming presence had invaded her yard.

He would have towered over her even if she'd been standing.  All she saw of him from her present lowly position was a pair of dusty black boots, black breeches and the ragged hem of a loose black shirt. Her bottom was still stinging as she struggled to her feet, mortified to be caught in such an undignified situation - and looked up… and up… to meet a pair of glacial blue eyes that regarded her over a jutting blade of a nose.

Cheeks flaming, she pushed sweat-dampened copper fronds from her face and stared him down. “How dare you put your hands on me? Leave immediately! You’re trespassing on private property, I’ll have you know.”

“Am I?” His gaze skimmed her insultingly in her clogs and her simple undergown, with her hair escaping from her braids in a fiery cloud. “Then you shouldn’t waggle that property about so invitingly. Your bailiff’s prerogative, is it? Or are you a local hearth-knight’s wench?”

A good week’s stubble darkened his jaw and his crow-black hair was long and wild. With the wicked-looking broad-sword at his hip, it marked him as some kind of fugitive from authority, an outlaw or _routier_ ;she could have thought him Richard of England’s evil henchman himself, the mercenary Mercadier, were it not for the lack of the well-known disfiguring scar on his cheek. Danger bled off him like the heat from a fire; and he had her mare by the halter, about to make off with her!

It would do no good to antagonise him further; not with Blancheflor’s safety at stake. Jehane swallowed down her anger as the ruffian continued to berate her, with more arrogance than a man who travelled unkempt and on foot had any right to do.

“Your lady must be as lax with her kitchen staff as she is with her livestock, if she lets you flaunt that flaming head of yours unbound,” he sneered, casting a contemptuous gesture at her.

"Fetch your mistress," he ordered. “Tell her I have her mare here."  This was Blancheflor’s cue to whinny and whisk her creamy tail as he led her forward. He chopped an imperious hand at the children, who were watching from a distance, goggle-eyed. “I caught these two out in the country, making off with her. I’d deliver them to the authorities myself if I had any sense... But I’m just passing though and it’s nothing to do with me.”

So horse-stealing was one charge she could not lay against him, despite his boorish demeanour and dubious looks. That crime was the responsibility of her own flesh and blood. Resignedly she noted that her offspring were as bedraggled and dirty as this doubtful new acquaintance of theirs. They had sneaked Blancheflor out of her stable and gone wandering, only to be taken for a couple of ragged outlaw brats by this unsavoury _routier_.

“Don’t let me set eyes on either of them again, or matters might change,"' he was saying. "Tie them up in a cellar for a day or two, girl, if they’re anything to do with you."

Jehane received the halter from his calloused hands with stiff fingers and stiffer lips, willing herself not to give in to tears of rage and humiliate herself still more. He’d taken her for a kitchen drudge in her old stained kirtle and unbound hair, and she'd thought her shame complete - until she caught her children looking on with interest, admiration even, for a man who dared to scold their formidable mother this way.

Oblivious of these undercurrents, he gave her a curt nod and turned to leave, pausing at the gate to deliver a parting shot. "Remember. If you don’t want to be treated like a common whore, don’t go about acting like one.”

With this final sally he was gone. Meanwhile the children had disappeared into the house, guilt lending them wings. The Virgin grant their consciences would prompt them into soap and water as well, Jehane thought wearily, for she had no time or energy for further arguments from them. Guests were expected for an elegant afternoon in the bower, complete with dainty refreshments and polite small talk.

Jehane leaned on her mare’s white neck and closed her eyes.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

 Gisborne’s bootheels resounded on the sun-hardened ruts as he stalked down the lane, putting the run-down manor and its unruly peasantry firmly behind him.

It was at times like this that he missed his spurs; their harsh metallic ring had always provided an apt underscoring of his moods. Now he no longer wore them at the whim of a bloody-minded horse, and the slap of his broadsword only compounded his irritation with every step he took.

He’d come to prefer his own company, back at the lodge in the forest of the Morvan. The presence of others had been there to be had, but at times of his own choosing... once the over-solicitous steward had learned not to hover over his every move. These days of aimless wandering had only reinforced his liking for solitude. With it had come a budding sense of release from intent, from liability, the need to engage or plan ahead. Now this fragile equilibrium had been disturbed by a pair of grimy peasant brats and an amorous mare.

As for the kitchen wench with the blazing hair and a temperament to match, the sooner she was expunged from his thoughts the better. Any interest in her neat person had waned the moment she had emerged from the hen-coop, spitting at him like a cat and glaring at him from eyes that echoed the older urchin’s insolent grey-green gaze. He had no taste for humping a shrew from a family of back-country ne’er do wells.

Ben was waiting for him when he reached Li Rossinholetz, pricking his ears and nickering a greeting as his rider approached. You only want me for the apples, Gisborne thought, stroking the velvet muzzle. Too bad he'd had the last of those last night.

Sunlight bounced off the small white stones as he entered the yard, the horse blowing softly in his wake.  The day had become over-warm, unusually so for the time of year. It was still not much past midday, but a heat haze hovered above the ground, dissolving the world to drunken fluidity, and the shadows of the stable beckoned. He was parched, he realised, watching the stallion dip his snout into the water trough. He could do with a drink himself.

But the morning had taken its toll on him and the thought was abandoned as swiftly as it arose. The stable smelt familiarly of horse and summer meadows. He dragged a few bales of straw together and stretched out on top of them in the gold-barred dark. He’d rest his eyes here for a while before moving on... 

He was wakened by a cautious tendril of breeze and the gurgle of an empty stomach. The sun sat low in the sky, slanting mellow rays through the stable door from a blush and amber west, and he remembered he’d eaten nothing since the day before. Food had been low on his list of priorities for many months. Now the pang in his gut insisted it was time he put something in there; yet his meagre supply of provisions had run out last night, and unlike his equine companion, he couldn’t fob his belly off with grass…

And in half a heartbeat he was back in his boyhood years, when he’d roamed the Nottinghamshire countryside from dawn to dusk, looking at birds and beasts and growing things; any excuse to be alone with his thoughts and forget his mother’s efforts to pretend it was a source of pride for them all that some so-called noble cause in a land thousands of leagues away mattered more to his father than family.

He’d sucked the nectar from deadnettle flowers when his innards complained, and slid tender hearts of grass from their coarser outer sheathes to chew on the succulent tips. Curious suddenly, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered outside to pull a blade from the nearest clump. But of course - the taste was not the same, the child’s delight lost to the jaded man of over thirty summers he was now.

Gisborne grimaced, dismissing this impromptu foray into the past as he skirted the house in search of a kitchen garden somewhere. There would be salad leaves there; early carrots and green onions perhaps. Those thieving peasant brats had mentioned strawberries, though judging by the juice stains round their mouths, there wouldn’t be many left. Besides, his stomach needed something more substantial, something to soak up the wine - which he also didn’t have.

Unconsciously, he licked at dry lips as he surveyed the orderly rows of vegetation with mounting gloom. As a child he’d chewed on hawthorn buds and called them bread and cheese, but unadulterated green leaves had no more appeal than grass stalks for his adult self.

The evening breeze stirred anew, whipping at his hair before wandering on to rattle a shutter on a downstairs window. A single panel was loose; closer inspection revealed that a bolt had come adrift, and recently, for the nail-holes were free of rust. The stallion’s caprices had denied him his spurs, but the beast had yet to venture an opinion on the claw dagger he kept in his boot. Gisborne felt no compunction in reaching for it now. This was his property when all was said and done, no matter that he had no intention of pursuing the claim. Within moments he had prised the shutter open and was climbing blind into the waiting dark.

When his eyes accustomed themselves, he found himself in a stone-flagged passage. To his left, tawny stripes of daylight barred the floor where doors stood open on shuttered rooms. To the right, heavier shadows prevailed; squinting, he made out a low portal several paces away, its latch and panels stitched with intermittent silver-gilt.

The heavy iron ring turned smoothly enough. A few cautious steps led him down to an undercroft where his searching fingers located a torch and tinder box lodged in a nearby sconce. When the flame blossomed, he saw that food would not be a problem after all. The half-loaf of rough maslin in the bread-crock was a little hard to be eaten as it stood, but it could be sopped in some liquid at a push, while the rest of what must be a steward’s day-to-day supplies was edible too. A half-eaten ham hung from the rafters, its flesh dark rose with an outer layer of cream; a quarter of a wheel of cheese lay on a shelf, wrapped in a moistened cloth to keep it from drying out.

Holding the torch aloft, Gisborne investigated further, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. Here were the manor’s long-term stores. Golden globes of mild sweet onions hanging up in strings... Bins of flour and other dried goods...Tubs of salt herring and cod, their oak staves gilded by the flickering light. Fat brown crocks sat in rows on well-stocked shelves. _Confits_ of goose and rabbit... Vegetables in brine and verjuice... Cherries and plums and pears preserved in honey, and everything labeled in a neat hand with a quick crude sketch of their contents for the benefit of unlettered kitchen staff. Over in a cool corner he found a small sack of apples. He stowed a couple in his shirt, noting that they were still crisp and un-wizened, promising a larger stash somewhere - preserved in racks perhaps, in the rafters of a barn.

A further door led into the buttery where a phalanx of brass-banded barrels widened his eyes. There must be wine enough here to last him for the rest of his life - unless he decided to take that as a challenge, he told himself with a mirthless twist of the lips. Raising the torch again, he made out the outlines of yet another door, strongly bolted, over on the far wall. Curious, he drew the heavy bolts aside to find a small storage chamber, empty now, with what he guessed was a retaining wall on the far side, where chamber met bare earth.

But he could see little of interest here, while the atmosphere in the buttery was stale and heavy with the acidic tang of spilled wine and the vague mushroom reek of humidity. Deterred from investigating further, he rebolted the door, leaving the buttery and then the undercroft in search of fresh air.

Smells of warm stone, polished wood and textile added to the mounting discomfort in his empty belly as he peered first into a kitchen, and then into a small neat hall. He located the main door at last, at the end of the passage; it was locked from the outside, the metalwork well-maintained, but eventually it yielded to his blade, hanging bent and useless from its fastenings. A plank in the hasps on either side of the frame would do well enough to bar the entrance again.

Ben trotted over to investigate as Gisborne emerged. The proffered apple was gone in no time, the whiskered mouth rasping against his palm as the greedy beast angled for more. A second fruit demolished and no more forthcoming, the stallion wandered off to crop at the grass,

Gisborne stood on the threshold looking after him, arms folded, one hip against the jamb. Silence settled over him like a cloak, punctuated only by the soughing of the wind in the trees and the burble of a nearby stream. Fresh water was not a problem then, for himself as well as the horse, though he felt no urgency to rush about with buckets just yet.

Lights first, then. It was already dim inside with the shutters closed and he had no wish to draw attention to himself by opening any more of them. Night would be here soon anyway, and in the morning he’d be gone. Retrieving the torch and some candles from the undercroft, he prowled through the rest of the house, room after room springing to gold and umber life in the light of the burning brand.

The kitchen stood bare and silent, the cooking fires quenched, the trestle-top white and uneven from years of patient attention from a scrubbing brush. Pans and cauldrons hung in their racks, sanded to a copper gleam; cups and platters stood on shelves, clean and ready for use. Beyond, he discovered the small space of a laundry press; chests and cabinets filled with household linen, the creamy folds scented with sweet herbs. Finally he pushed at the double doors of the main hall, the high-beamed chamber echoing as they scraped on stone flags brushed clean of rushes to discourage pests. The hearth was clear of ash, the curved black claws of the firedogs empty - all and everything bore out the peasant’s boy’s assertion that no one had lodged here in many months.

And neither would he.

_To the knight, Sir Guy of Gisborne, late of Locksley and the shire of Nottingham... I give my manor of Li Rossinholetz…_

The parchment’s presence in his pouch burned him, its inked words the hum of angry bees in his mind; yet somehow he’d been unable to bring himself to throw it away. Consigning the intrusive thoughts to the devil once again, he resumed his exploration. After all, he had nothing better to do with his time.

A trestle table, neatly stacked against a wall; high-backed chairs, carved with light-handed artistry, and ornamental sconces in the shape of beasts and birds... Open oak treads led to an upper floor, but as he touched the torch to fat beeswax candles on a wrought iron stand, he was overcome with a sudden reluctance to venture there.

Today had been more eventful than he was used to, he told himself. He was spent and his scars were pulling. There was a cushioned settle under the window, draped in wool tapestry of rich garnets and greens; it would be a luxurious couch after his nights under a hedge, while a corner of the garden would do duty as a privy.

On the return from his chosen spot, he went to assure himself of the stallion’s welfare, only to find the beast in the stable, dozing comfortably. Shrugging, he re-entered the house and barred the front door; then he retraced his steps to the kitchen, undercroft and buttery, helping himself to bread, cheese and a generous supply of wine.

It all slipped down easily, the wine as smooth as silk. Before he’d drained his last refill, he was nodding where he sat.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

 “ _Gougères_? What an original idea, my dear!”

Hawise of Flavigny’s mouse-brown brows crawled up her forehead to disappear under her veils, the fastidious expression giving the lie to her words of praise as she surveyed the proffered chafing dish. She waved it away as if it contained one of Blancheflor’s horse-apples with its accompanying cloud of buzzing flies.

The visitor from Dijon bit delicately into one of the tiny cheese-stuffed pastries, catching the crumbs in a cupped palm to spare the smart russet wool of her gown. “Indeed so,” she said, mildly and reached for another. “Perhaps your cook would favour me with the receipt, my lady Jehane. We grow so jaded at court with our over-fancy food.” She glanced up kindly at Aubrey, who was on enforced page duty with the vast pewter platter with the leopard handles and trying not to squirm in the uncomfortable prison of _best clothes_. “Such helpful children, too,” she added with a warm smile. “Truly a credit to you, my lady.”

Aubrey bit at an under-lip already sore from recent chewing and prayed Thierry wasn’t about to land Maman in the soup with one of his tactless remarks. Not that it would have made much difference to the deep-bosomed, friendly woman who’d been introduced as the Lady Maheult; she might even be impressed that her hostess had deigned to make the pastries with her own hands. They were very good _gougères_ , too, as a surreptitious sampling of a few slightly overdone specimens had proved.

That constipated old besom was another matter. Mistress Hawise rarely passed up a chance to look down her pointy beak at them, however much she tried to muscle in on Maman’s life. And all because she considered herself superior, since she was rich and her husband had been appointed by King Philippe Auguste himself, as she never tired of reminding them. Already Maman’s face had assumed that closed expression it took on whenever the _prévost_ ’s wife was around; brows finely arched to stop the deep creases from forming between them, and little white patches bracketing her fixed smile.

As usual Thierry had forgotten his manners and was kicking listlessly at the legs of his stool with the much-hated shoes, the neck of his shirt twisted awry with his constant wriggling about. Luckily there were other things on his mind at present than the _gougère-_ baker's identity; he was eyeing up the dish of berry-topped tartelets with barely concealed greed. You’d never believe he’d gulped two of them down already while Maman was upstairs tidying herself. Aubrey hoped for his sake she’d missed the incriminating trail of red juice down his best tunic of robin's egg blue wool.They’d both been forbidden the treats for taking Blancheflor out. As if page duty in the solar was not punishment enough!

“She won’t know,” the bird-brained idiot had asserted confidently, through a mouthful of crisp pastry and sweet fruit.

But Maman would know, his worldly-wise elder sibling reflected, with an apprehension that went beyond the matter of stolen tarts and walked little cold mouse-feet up a guilty spine. Maman always knew everything. 

Yet soon it appeared that there were things Maman hadn’t known. Aubrey crept  from the house some hours later, making for the look-out tree, a giant fig on the perimeter of the wild garden. The fruits were still small and green and spongy, but they were something to chew on mechanically while watching the darkening world from among the leafy boughs and recalling the moment when things went so terribly awry.

“And how is our dear duchess?” Mistress Hawise had oozed, with an arch simper, ”Can we expect glad tidings before too long?”

That meant babies, Aubrey thought, suppressing a shudder. Did women think of nothing else when they got together? And those little cold mouse-feet had come pattering again.

“ _Hélas_ ,” the kindly visitor from Dijon had said. “Such things are in the hands of Our Lady, of course, and we live in hope and prayer. But what with the recent sad news, Lady Jehane, I confess we are all quite cast down.”

“Sad news?” The _prévost_ ’s wife had set down her goblet with a casual air, folding her hands primly in her lap to hide her eagerness to be in on all the latest gossip from the Burgundian court.

“It is the lady of Vézelay, I fear," was the quiet reply. “She has succumbed to her malady at last and gone to her rest - may God and all his angels assoil her.”

There’d been a sharp metallic clink of a flagon on the rim of a cup, and Aubrey glanced up to see Maman frozen in the act of pouring wine for her guests.

“It was many months ago, we understand,” the Lady Maheult had continued. “She had retired to the abbey of Fontevrault towards the end. Truly, even bad news is slow to travel in these troubled times.”

Maman had set the old silver jug down with infinite care, pressing her palms against the solid oak surface of the trestle and swallowing hard. Her lips were pale and bloodless, her lashes fluttering, and a cold heavy feeling hit the pit of Aubrey’s stomach. But this was Maman, and swooning was just for stupid damsels in tales.

“She was much loved and will be sorely missed, will she not?” the duchess’s woman had asked, looking around her with a sad smile. And again Maman swallowed, and swallowed again. At last she’d nodded calmly and picked up the jug, her hands perfectly steady as she filled the cups, handing round brimming goblets with her gracious lady of the manor face fixed firmly on.

“But I forget, Mistress Hawise,” Lady Maheult had said then. “You are new come to these parts and can not have known her. Her lord the Count was one of our previous duke’s staunchest supporters, though he died some years ago - near Genoa I believe, whence he had gone to scout his lord’s route to the Holy Land. The lady Alix did not remarry, but she brought nothing but content and prosperity to his estates and hers from that day hence.”

Aubrey stared out into the darkening wild garden, trying to picture the woman who had been the Countess of Vézelay. Her appearances at Vignoles had been few and far between, for all that the neighbouring manor was hers; her last visit had been over a year ago, when they'd been ill in bed with the _rougeole_. Yet Maman had seemed so close to her, far closer that you’d expect for someone she saw so little. The sound of their girlish laughter had been almost shocking as it drifted up to the sickroom, sign though it was that the invalids were on the mend and life was returning to normal after the times of hushed silences and blue smudges under worried eyes.

The Countess had come to sit with them while Maman rested, Aubrey remembered now; cool and calming and careless of the fine wool of her gown as she sponged the crusts from their sore bodies with sweet-scented cloths and gave them sips of boiled water with honey and lemon juice.

“Shall I tell you the tale of two little girls who lived in a castle, long ago?” she'd asked one eveniing, her ministrations done for the while.

“Girls are boring,” Aubrey had objected with a sullen pout. “All they do is sit in the solar with their stupid embroidery.”

“Girls can do more than you give them credit for, young Aubrey,” the Countess had replied with a faraway look in her eye. “These little hellions had all sorts of adventures... Escapes from tower windows at dead of night to run the curtain walls; dares to climb the tallest trees...”

“They still had to sit down when they went to the privy, I bet,” Thierry had taunted from the truckle across the room. And Aubrey was forced to abandon the role of outraged elder sibling to snigger helplessly at such talk in front of a real live countess; though the Countess herself seemed to be sniggering just as much.

They’d slept then, and when Maman came up again her face was still pale and sad, but the dark thumbprints of exhaustion had begun to fade from under her eyes. And now her companion from long ago had gone to God.

Maman hadn’t cried, not even when the guests were waved off at the end of an afternoon that had seemed to stretch into the middle of next week. But then Maman never cried. She’d just told them to remember the Lady Alix in their prayers as she kissed them goodnight. Even so, a cautious ear to her chamber door had revealed noises that were unsettling enough to send Aubrey clambering out of the window as soon as Thierry’s soft snores proved he was dead to the world.

And so was the Countess, Aubrey reflected gloomily, but in a more permanent way. That went for Papa too. By now his image was even more of a blur than any memory of the Lady of Vézelay; just big boots smelling of horse, a loud voice and a pair of strong arms. It made you shiver to think of their bodies lying in the cold ground while their souls wandered about like billows of smoke in some mysterious other place Father Joscelin seemed to know a lot about.

No wonder Maman was sad. Yet to go to her and mention the fact would make her set her jaw in a way that was all too familiar, since it matched Aubrey’s own stubborn refusal to show weakness when things went wrong.

But for the moment, the stars had come out. The moon rode the sky like a ship with a full-bellied golden sail, and the urge to yawn was a reminder that sleep was not too far away.

Perhaps Maman would be tired by now, and sleep as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne’s last thought as he threw himself down on the settle each night was that in the morning he’d be moving on. To where, he did not know but he saw no need to think about that for now.

The little manor was secluded, far from the mainstream of life, but it was too neat, too well-maintained to have been abandoned indefinitely. Someone would be turning up before long; a bailiff or steward, asking questions, and the prospect of supplying answers did not sit comfortably with him.

Nevertheless, each day found him postponing his departure once again. He went down to the stream one dawn, intending to wash and water his horse before restocking pouch and costrel and setting on his way. Instead he spent the greater part of the morning following the rivulet's course as it wound through an orchard of peach and apricot, apple and plum; the fruit was no more than small green nodules at present, he noticed idly, but it promised rich bounty to come. Another morning saw him discovering Li Rossinholetz’s village, close by to the east, larger and more prosperous in appearance  than the hamlet attached to the neighbouring _demesne_. Neat cottages of lime-washed wattle and daub clustered round a close-cropped green where ducks and geese waddled, herded gleefully by raucous children with sticks.

Chivvying the stallion from his indolence, he took to roaming further afield, skirting fields that whispered with unripe wheat,  pacing the borders of lush pastures where fat white cattle drowsed in the sun. Now and then he caught the glint of hidden watercourses, and scattered stands of timber offered oases of shade, their thick carpetings of bracken alive with the rootlings of pigs. And each evening as he turned for home, there would be the mellow bulk of the manor house there in the distance, golden in the sun’s last rays; while behind it, the striated green mound of a vineyard reared up to meet a rose and saffron sky.

Loath to make his presence felt, he took pains in his wanderings to observe his surroundings from afar; even so he encountered the occasional villager, herding animals or hefting mattocks and hoes as they went to and fro from the fields. Perhaps it was inevitable that he should wake one morning to feel the kiss of steel upon his skin.

He opened bleary eyes to find a huddle of unwashed peasantry standing over him, and the blade of an axe pressed to his throat.

Christ on the cross! How could he have been so careless? He’d flung his sword belt over the candle stand last night as he meandered back to the settle with another jug of wine - the candle stand now out of his reach on the far side of the room. Of course, none of this would have happened if he’d gone to register his claim with the authorities in Avallon; though why would he have bothered when he was only passing through?

It took several moments for his sluggish brain to retrieve the memory that he'd flung himself onto the settle last night without removing off his boots. Yet his scars and his lack of exercise had made him slow; he was given no chance to twist away and reach for the wicked little dagger they concealed.  He was seized by multiple pairs of horny hands, and he felt the rough bite of a length of baling twine as his wrists were brought together in front of him and bound.

“Get off me!" he snarled, battling the brawny arms and garlic breath as he was dragged to his feet.

But to no avail; they hauled him off towards the doorway, where a smug bastard in a brown tunic and hose was supervising the proceedings, bouncing officiously on his toes.

“Take. Your. Hands. Off me!" Gisborne had succeeded in shaking off one of his captors; now he lunged for the man in brown, who stepped back, eyes widening. The neat and sober garb marked him as a cut above his motley band of ruffians, and if reading and writing were beyond him, the array of official seals should be enough for anyone. “Look in there, or you will be sorry you were born." He jerked his chin to where his pouch lay on a coffer by the hearth. "I have every right to be here, and the documents to prove it. Then you can get off my property, whoever you think you are.”

The smug bastard stood his ground, arching a thickly-drawn black brow. “I am the steward of this manor,” he replied evenly. “Since you ask so politely. And I have never seen you before in my life.” The small mouth twisted dismissively as he delved into the pouch, drawing out the bill of conveyance and the copy of the will. Fox-brown eyes scanned swiftly down the page, his throat moving. Finally, he compressed his lips and set the parchments aside. “This means nothing,” he said, his voice husking. He flicked a blunt finger at the seals. “On the surface, these seem genuine; I recognise those of the royal chancery in Paris and that of Dijon, though the other two are unknown to me. Bit no such news has come to us. As far as I am aware, this manor is held by my mistress, the Lady Alix, Countess of Vézelay. It is her most private retreat.”

Gisborne glowered, scattering his other captors, who remained close at hand in case of further violence. “And now it belongs to me.”

The steward raised a brow again and eyed him up and down “You are hardly the sort she would know,” he said, with a sneer for the sorry picture he, Gisborne, must make with his unwashed person, his wild hair and torn and travel-stained clothes. “And if, as it claims here, she is no more, may Christ and all his saints assoil her, then who is to say you have not stolen these somehow; from the messenger who carried them to her rightful heir, perhaps?” He walked over to the trestle to consult the documents one by one, a hand on each curling edge. “This... Guy of Gisborne? Whoever that might be.”

“I met your lady,” Gisborne said. ”Briefly. In England.”

The explanation was drawn from him as painfully as an impacted tooth, and he felt himself blink and swallow at the stab of memory. “But long enough though to know that no one dares to steal her horse = as you as her steward must know.” Bringing up his bound wrists, he put two fingers in his mouth and blew.

And for once the stallion deigned to come when called, appearing at the door with a harrumph; hoping for apples no doubt, but greeting his rider with enthusiasm nonetheless. Vindicated, Gisborne strolled forward to greet the animal in his turn.

“Now,” he said, turning to face his accuser with an unpleasant smile. “Cut me free and get this rabble out of my house. Then perhaps you can explain why you’ve left this place unattended for all this time.”

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

So it had come at last, and by a chance remark from a stranger!

Somehow the blow had seemed all the more cruel for that.

_It is the Lady of Vézelay… She has succumbed to her malady at last and gone to her rest_ …

The words had eaten away at Jehane’s soul like poison in the gut. Never had she felt so alone; her mother had died in childbed, her father of a congestion of the lungs while she was still a young maid in Flanders; the pale face that glanced down absentmindedly from his writing desk had long since faded beyond recall. Lys was all she’d ever known of family, and now she was no more.

At first she’d sought to blot the knowledge from her mind, the sense of loss too raw to dwell upon. Her workaday worries had provided an almost welcome source of distraction and she’d seized on them with an eagerness that left her weak with exhaustion by the end of each day.

The children for example... They’d always been headstrong, with too much energy for their own good; but of late but they were impossible, vanishing at inopportune moments and tired enough not to quibble about bedtime on the return. Indeed, she would have thought them sickening for some unknown ailment, had she not caught the glint of conspiratorial glee in their eyes that had always spelled trouble with them. Queries and threats were met with closed expressions, confinement to the house endured with weary resignation; then they were off again the moment they were set free.

Blancheflor was another cause for concern; balky and irritable, fussing whenever the saddle was on her back, which made riding unpleasant if not impossible. Nor was that the whole of it; slowly, Jehane had come to face the fact that the mare’s time of oestrus had been abnormally short, while the next was long overdue. Her dreams became haunted by visions of something dark and implacable burrowing in the poor beast’s insides. If, Our Lady Mother forfend, she had to be put down, she could never be replaced. Crippling material loss aside, Jehane would mourn the spirit and intelligencet of the dainty animal that was also a dear friend’s gift.

Then one morning she stood at the stable door with the rust-eaten latch come away in her hand. Only the other day Berthe had shrieked as a roof tile fell down the kitchen smoke-hole and landed in her cooking pot. An unpalatable truth was brought home to her in all its stark immediacy; the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon was her sole bastion against the future, and it would fall to pieces around her ears.

Unless...…

But no. The very thought was like the drip of vinegar into an open wound.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

**I.**

By slow degrees, an uneasy kind of peace was brokered with the square-set man in brown, who went by the name of Reynault.

It was on the steward’s sufferance that he was there, Gisborne was well aware of that. Seals notwithstanding, a few sheets of parchment were meagre proof of ownership to that shrewd and cautious mind. A single piece of evidence spoke in his favour – his obvious closeness to a highly-strung horse that would have killed rather than be taken against his will.

Meanwhile the retainer continued to watch his every move. Gisborne had caught the opaque gaze on him every now and then; weighing him up, hoping the lethargy, the indifference to estate affairs meant this unwelcome visitor would soon tire of his game of lord of the manor and move on. Clearly it frustrated the man that the restrictions of his class left him little choice but give the newcomer the benefit of the doubt, forcing him to bide his time till he had concrete proof of his suspicions to lay before the authorities.

As for Gisborne himself, he continued his policy of roaming aimlessly through the countryside by day and collapsing on the settle at night, while the phlegmatic Reynault saw to his own concerns - whatever those might be. What did Nottingham’s onetime dutiful master at arms and stickler for discipline care about such things, since he was only passing through? All the same, he’d leave when he was good and ready and not because any jumped-up servant wanted him gone.

Leery of further human contact, he kept to the byways, enjoying the anonymity, the sense of freedom from responsibility afforded him by this remote but lushly endowed land. Yet there were times on his meanderings when his spine pricked between his shoulder-blades with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He would stop, affecting to allow the stallion to crop grass while he glanced about him; then he would shrug, telling himself he was imagining things, and move on.

Bored one afternoon, he decided to make himself a bow as he’d done when he was a boy. Was this manor developing a habit of regressing him to his childhood, he wondered, thinking back to the day of his arrival at Li Rossinholetz. Grass shoots and hawthorn bud bread and cheese, indeed! As if he’d welcome a return to those times, knowing what he knew now, knowing what the future would bring.

Dismissing the reflection, he went in search of an ash stave and a length of twine. It took him some time to master the crude weapon’s eccentricities, but at last his body remembered the way of it and his arrows ran true. He was nocking another shaft when a hail of twigs and beech mast rained down on his head.

He glanced up sharply, to see one of the budding horse-thieves who’d bedevilled him once before; the cocky little runt was grinning down at him from among the branches and swinging his legs. Gisborne’s fist clenched on the stave of his makeshift bow till it bit into his palm. He was incensed by this intrusion on his private thoughts; he was also more than a little unnerved to realise that his suspicions had been correct. He’d been watched all right, and by a snot-nosed brat who was now pelting him with beech mast and twigs.

“Come down here, you little fox turd, and do that again!”

“Bain't no foxes hereabouts.” The tow-headed urchin curled his hands into paws. “I’m a squirrel, and squirrels stay up in the trees so the wolves can't get a-hold o' them. I like your bow.” he added brightly, changing tack with dazzling speed. “I’ll fetch your arrows for you if you let me have a go.”

Gisborne growled and took a step towards the tree... And suddenly, his hand went his cheek. Something hard and fast had shot by his face; it thunked against the trunk of the beech before falling to the ground. Spinning round, he saw the other young ruffian emerge from the bushes, sling-shot in hand.

“You shoot like an Englishman,” the boy remarked with a contemptuous lift of the chin towards the scatter of arrows in Gisborne’s target tree. “Wide,” he elucidated, in case the insult was unclear. A pointed tongue came out and waggled rudely; then he was off, weaving through the undergrowth like a darting rabbit, losing himself in the familiar terrain before Gisborne could get close to him.

Of course, when he returned to deal with the squirrel, the insolent pup was long gone.

A willful, insubordinate breed of peasantry they raised round here, Gisborne reflected sourly as he rode slowly back to Li Rossinholetz. It must be something in the air. Either that or laxness of their overlords; the bold demeanour of the flame-haired hussy on the neighbouring estate bore that supposition out. Far from the eternal jockeyings for power that set rival against rival, the local nobility must have grown fat and complacent in their little backwater; indifferent or just plain oblivious to slack discipline.

And it was lack of discipline that had lost him his home and his family in the course of a single afternoon. A muscle ticked in Gisborne’s jaw as he recalled the mob at Locksley, baying for his blood. His mother had been a kind and gracious lady of the manor, but the lower orders understood nothing beyond an iron fist.

Then a dying breeze brushed his cheek, and it was as if he felt the touch of soft lips on his skin.

_Marian…_

He saw her again, standing proud and straight in the bailey of Nottingham Castle as they hacked off her beautiful hair, though he knew it cost her dear. As always, the mere thought of her was enough to make him gasp with pain, sweetly addictive though it was to picture her thus, vital and alive. Her cheeks were warm and her eyes were dark and luminous with her shame, yet it had not deterred her. She’d continued to defy them all, as the Night Watchman and herself, risking all she was and everything she had to bring comfort to those in need. And they had loved her wholeheartedly for it, and would cherish her memory forever, while his iron fist had earned him nothing but hatred and fear.

He rubbed at his face, banishing the vision before he unmanned himself for anyone to see. Then he straightened his spine and clicked his tongue at his dawdling mount. It had been a long day; it was time to put an end to it with his usual regimen of bread and wine and his narrow couch on the settle.

And at times she would come to him in the rare blessing of dreams; whole again, cool and remote and radiantly lovely in her robes of wood-ash grey.

Then he’d wake to find himself face to face with cold reality again.

 

**ll.**

Ben’s snort of displeasure and an answering nervous wicker from beside the house alerted him to the presence of horses in Li Rossinholetz' yard; the steward’s solid chestnut and a raw-boned bay Gisborne had not seen before.

Both were shifting from hip to hip and stamping uneasily. Kneeing his mount closer, he saw the hapless beasts had been hitched to the nearest tree in indecent haste. The chestnut’s tether was on the point of sliding loose, while the bay was on too short a rein, straining its neck till it coughed miserably.

Foam dripped from their muzzles, and muscles jumped in flanks that were black with sweat. Gisborne face darkened and he slid from the stallion’s back, grimacing as he limped over to the ill-used pair; after the day's activities, his scars were nagging at him again, stoking his mood.

With no stable hand in the offing, he slackened off the tether on the bay himself and reknotted the chestnut’s reins. First things first. Whoever was responsible for this wanton neglect could wait to suffer the consequences; these poor animals could not. He was striding off, fuming, to fetch a brush and a handful of rags to rub them down when Reynault emerged from the side of the house. The retainer started uncomfortably when he saw his new lord was back - as well he might!

“Where in the name of all the demons of hell have you been?” Vaisey’s feared enforcer anchored a strand of hair behind an ear and scowled; an expression that had put the fear of God into lesser men. “These beasts are winded. Did you not think to cool them down after you’d run them into the ground?”

“I went to fetch the _chirugien_ from the town.” The steward was as winded as the horses, still wheezing slightly as he trotted across to his master’s side. “Time was of the essence. One of the village men had an accident.” He nodded back in the direction of the kitchen door. “He is taking the arm off at the elbow now…”

“On **MY** kitchen table?”

Gisborne had endured too much bucolic trying of his patience that day for his reaction to have been anything other than callous. Besides, he was no stranger to this kind of crude butchery; he’d seen it done on filthy pallets or the bloody mud of the battlefield, hearing the cries and witnessing the often fatal, stinking consequences. Then there’d been the savage punishments ordered by a master to whom justice was less important than an iron fist. Now and then he’d ordered such punishments himself- and carried them out. Inured though he thought he was, he flinched as a sudden dull thud was accompanied by a muffled scream

“He was chopping wood for _your_ kitchen fire when he hit a knot.” Reynault had retrieved a pair of brushes from the stable, passing one over when Gisborne stretched out a hand. The retainer’s expression was scrupulously neutral as he added, “He will need bedding down here for a day or two if he is to stand a chance.”

Gisborne wondered if this was the man who’d put his axe blade to his neck a few short weeks ago; it was a rough kind of justice, if so. “Not in my stable he won’t,” he pronounced as they began to work on the shivering beasts, the stallion looking on with lofty curiosity. “The stink of blood and pus will spook my horse.”

Suddenly the subtle attempts at manipulation, the inevitable po-faced reaction to a refusal felt like too much to deal with now. “Oh, put him on a pallet in the linen press if you must. God knows there’s enough useless frippery in there to rip up for bandaging. Well, what are you waiting for?” With a final pat to the bay’s neck, he flung down the brush he’d been using and made for the house, forcing his aching body to stride out under his steward’s gaze.

As he sat over his half-eaten meal and his fast-emptying wine jug that night, he was already regretting his generous impulse. The stifled moans and subdued mutterings of the womenfolk who’d stayed to tend their man told him he no longer had the place to himself, and it grated on him. At least there’d been no sign of **HIS** kitchen’s grislier function when he’d wandered in there earlier, in search of something to settle his stomach’s pangs. The trestle was scrubbed and pristine as always, the floor washed clean, though the smell of lye soap rasped his throat and damp still lingered here and there between the flags.

In the end he carried the wine and food to the stable and spent the night with his horse.

**IIl.**

Next evening, a crock of stew was waiting for him on the trestle beside the jug of wine; rich with meats, its steam fragrant with mushrooms and herbs. A day or two later, the injured man was gone - back to his hovel or into the ground, Gisborne did not ask and didn’t want to know.

The following evening, he heard a discreet footfall and he looked up from his platter- some kind of raised game pie that night- to see Reynault, a clutch of leather-bound volumes under his arm. “The rolls,” the steward said, and, on finding this overture met with an empty stare, “I shall leave them here.”

The retainer duly deposited them on the trestle and risked an expectant cough; with a response still not forthcoming, he turned on the heel of his polished brown boots and made for the door. On the threshold he paused, his hand on the latch. “The women have made up the bed in your chamber,” he said, mildly, his eyes lighting fleetingly on the settle, then darting away again. “ _Messire_ ,” he added, and the doors closed silently behind him.

Gisborne looked up as the footsteps died away,  noticing his surroundings for the first time in days. The compact main hall was neat and dust-free, the woodwork gleaming with honey-scented beeswax, and all had been accomplished with discretion; no serving woman had invaded his privacy. The shutters stood open, letting in what remained of a violet-veined dusk, while fat wax candles cast a golden glow in dark corners, picking out details of form and furnishings with wavering licks of light.

Yet he spared not a glance for Reynault’s leather-bound account books, nor did he abandon the settle that night for a more conventional place to lay his head. The fires of possession that had flared so unexpectedly on his initial encounter with the steward had guttered and all but gone out.

 **MY** kitchen… **MY** stable…

That recent outburst had been the last spark from a dying coal, a fit of temper at the end of a trying day. Manor rolls and soft feather beds were nothing to him; they smacked too much of a permanence he refused to accept. Home comforts were a pernicious drug to which he dare not succumb; home and comfort were all too easily taken away, as he’d found out long ago.

No. He was just passing through, that was the long and the short of it. And if he’d stayed longer than intended, it was to gather his strength for the road.

 

 **The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

Jehane had taken a calming infusion of dried linden flowers to the solar, cradling it in her hands and gazing into the fragrant golden liquid as she allowed herself to contemplate the unthinkable at last.

On Vignole's eastern bounds stood the manor of Li Rossinholetz with its bountiful fields and fat live-stock, and the neat and prosperous village that bordered its skirts. And Lys had offered it to her upon Robert’s death - in an impromptu boar-hunt of all things, organised to fill a gap between the tourneys he chose over his hearth and family. A death that had left her even more impoverished than she already was.

By then, pride was the only thing she had left, a pride that made it impossible for her to accept the gift. Lys had not pressed the point, not wishing to strip her of her dignity; but with the proviso that in due course the cherished retreat was to come to her or to her descendants, as the case might be.

“Signed and sealed, Jehanet,” she had insisted, looking down at Thierry, new born at the time, swaddled and snuffling in his crib. “It is from my mother’s dower, the one thing that is all mine to give without ties or obligation. Where else should it go? For the children’s sake, you cannot refuse.”

This had been seven years ago and by common consent there’d been no mention of it since, not even on that final, fraught visit, so full of sorrow and fear; hardly been the time for cold practicalities, with the children so ill with the _rougeole_  and her friend on the edge of despair, however much she'd tried to conceal the fact.

For the children’s sake…

Pride was a sin indeed, one that matched her husband’s feckless ways in potential for damning the soul. Now it rose up in unholy alliance with her conscience, berating her for such ghoulish greed when the companion of her childhood was barely cold in her grave.

Yet again, Jehane lay sleepless that night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Professed indifference to manor business notwithstanding, Gisborne found himself flicking through the records one night. He was staring idly at the neat columns, page after page, as Reynault came in with his meal on silent feet.

The steward had never referred to his wanderings during the day, nor the undisturbed bed upstairs, though he’d not ceased his covert scrutiny, his quiet evaluation of everything this new lord of his said and did. Gisborne for his part saw no need to call him out on it.  Why bother when he'd be moving on? Though he'd be damned if he'd give the man the satisfaction of telling him so.

The retainer’s face was carefully expressionless as he moved the ledger to one side, setting down the flagon of wine, together with a platter containing half a roast fowl and a fresh manchet loaf. “There is a matter I must discuss with you, Messire.” Again he used the honorific, as he had taken to doing after the incident of the axe-man’s amputation and its unpleasant aftermath in the linen press. “A couple in the village seek permission to marry. A babe on the way again, I fear.” For the first time in their relationship, he unbent enough to raise a brow and sketch a small shrug.

‘Messire’ managed a more robust shrug of his own. “What interests me more is what you’ve done with the other half of this chicken. Otherwise do as you like. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“I did not mean to imply you had any _personal_ involvement in the affair,” the steward retorted smoothly, though the merest hint of a gleam lit his eyes. “And the rest of the chicken is in tomorrow's pie.”

Involuntarily, Gisborne’s austere mouth twitched. “Waste not, want not, eh?" he said eventually. He gestured at the meticulously-kept ledger with his half-eaten drumstick. “I take it you’ve recorded this, along with everything else in there?”

Reynault spread his hands and inclined his close-cropped head before returning to his previous theme. “There is the question of a cottage,” he added. “One could be fashioned quickly and cheaply from a disused shed.”

Gisborne wondered aloud why the man was bothering him with all this, since he clearly had everything so well in hand... Down to the last piece of chicken.

“My lady always liked to attend a wedding.” The information was offered with a finely-calculated diffidence. “Whenever she was in residence, that is.”

Gisborne saw the bait and refused to take it. “But I’m not your lady, am I?” He closed the leather-bound volume with a snap, bringing the conversation to a close. If he were the steward’s dear departed patron, he reflected grimly, he’d drop this obsession with pulling strings from beyond the grave...

“ **OPEN UP**!”

The lock had been repaired by now, but the outer door was shuddering under a rain of blows. Gisborne shot a glance at his steward, a brow on the rise. A shake of the head and a widening of the eyes gave him his answer; this was trouble and no mistake. He reached for his sword-belt from the back of his chair; he'd learned his lesson on leaving his weapon beyond reach.

“ **OPEN _UP_** , I say!”

“Who says so?” Gisborne’s response was more than a match for the newcomer's loud and arrogant tones, but whoever he was, he was not about to be intimidated.

“The lord of this manor,” he boomed. “Open up, and do it **NOW,** or my men will do it for you.”

The lord of this manor, was it?

Thoughts and strategies spun through Gisborne’s brain, a fiery web of pros and cons. Sober though he was at present, he might have missed the crunch of a pair or two of boots on the gravel; but a more sizeable invasion? He didn’t think so. The intruder must not be expecting any serious opposition; there’d be a couple of attendants with him at most. “Do as he says," he murmured to the steward as he unsheathed his blade and concealed it under the trestle. "But leave this door open; then double back and stand behind it with your dagger drawn.”

There was a resounding crash as the outer door swung back against the wall. Heavy footfalls sounded along the passage, and a tall, gaunt figure strode in; a man of substance, or so he must reckon himself, for he wore rich brocade in a shade of forest green with a matching cap on his iron-grey hair. Gold winked at finger, shoulder and throat; his boots were of the finest red leather and he planted them wide, standing with arms akimbo and a sneer on his face. “About time,” he remarked, tucking a pair of gauntlets into a tooled leather belt that matched the boots. “If you’re the steward of the place, fellow,” he added, stabbing a bony finger in Gisborne’s direction, “I think you’ll find you’ve just finessed yourself out of a job.”

A swift visual inventory revealed that this man was as good as unarmed; there was no sword at his hip, and the heavily jewelled dagger at his belt was of a kind Gisborne would scorn to use to pare his nails. “Whom did you say I had the pleasure of addressing?” he asked, dangerously mild.

“I am Osmond de Bèze. And you will address me as ‘my lord’.”

Gisborne sucked his teeth, blatantly neglecting to rise from his seat and bow as he was clearly expected to do. “And you have the means of course, _my lord_ , to prove what you say?” He gestured casually as the sallow cheeks mottled with mauve and puce. “You’ll understand my caution,” he went on, still mild, though his heart and lungs were pumping in anticipation of the action to come. This was like old times, the cat-and-mouse moments of sizing up an opponent, and he was almost enjoying himself. “This is an unusual time of day to come claiming an estate.”

De Bèze gave an impatient snort and reached into the folds of his tunic, drawing out an impressive scroll that bristled with ribbons and wax. “See for yourself.” he said, flinging it brusquely onto the trestle. “I doubt you can read, my man, but here are the seals of the king and the Duke of Burgundy. Then you can go and pack your bags, for there is no place for you here now.”

Gisborne found he was no longer entertained. This over-dressed and overbearing stick of a man had brought a taste of challenge into his humdrum life, but this business of documents and seals was a step too far. He held the genuine articles himself, signed and sealed and witnessed to the hilt, and if he’d ever doubted their authenticity, there were the stallion and a queen’s dying courier to attest to their provenance.

So how could this preening popinjay have a just claim to Li Rossinholetz? His nostrils flared as he seized the offending parchment and looked it over. “What do you think, Reynault?” He flicked his tangled locks from his eyes and squinted up at the steward, who’d slid noiselessly from his hiding place to take up his station behind the intruder’s back.

“What do _you_ think, Messire?”

This laconic voice at his shoulder shook de Bèze out of his complacency. For the first time since his arrival he glanced about himself, no longer so confident of success.

Gisborne smiled unpleasantly and bent to the parchment again. “Mostly, I spent my Latin lessons staring out of the window,” he began, conversationally. “But I picked up enough to know garbled nonsense when I see it.”

“And if these seals are genuine,” the steward put in, “Then I am the King of Jerusalem himself. Even if they were not twice as large as they should be, the same scarlet wax has been used for them all. Good enough, of course, to confuse us simple country folk.” As he spoke, he'd pressed the point of his dagger against the small round paunch beneath the stranger’s belt, using two fingers of his other hand to extract the pretty jewelled toy of a knife from its sheath. “So what is your game, _my lord_?”

Osmond de Bèze twisted angrily, then hissed as the retainer’s blade penetrated the rich brocade to graze his skin. “Fortin!” he roared, his voice ringing in the silence of the darkened countryside. “You others! To me!”

At once he was answered by the drum of running feet and the metallic shiver of honed steel. Gisborne rolled his eyes, cursing himself for his miscalculation as a good half-dozen men burst in, broadswords at the ready. It must have suited de Bèze’s sense of drama to make his entrance alone; his minions would have left their mounts in the lane and then crept in, boots and weapons muffled, ready to take any opposition by surprise.

“The side window,” he mouthed at Reynault, extricating his own blade from beneath the trestle. “The one with the loose shutter.”

There was a sudden tramp of boots at the rear, and the kitchen door began to rattle alarmingly. “Quick, man. Get help, before they cut you off… _Now_ would be a good time,” he urged as the steward hesitated, reluctant to abandon his livelihood to the mercy of these rough men.

Gisborne wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took his guard, heartened by the diminishing thunder of hooves that told him the steward had got away. But he was well outnumbered here, and he’d not drawn a blade in anger since the last time he died, beneath the doomed keep at Nottingham. What edge he’d once possessed was long gone, his scars still protesting all but the most cautious of moves.

Yet how could you kill a man who was already dead? Win or lose, he only stood to gain; victory would be its own reward, while defeat would cut his last ties with this world and set him free. He laughed aloud at this thought and reached for the battle rage. It was a blind kind of frenzy that had driven him in the past, like a midwinter storm, hacking and buffeting everything in its path. Now, mysteriously, a cold, hard, calculating fury took hold of him; iced lightening, knifing through body and brain, making the path of each potential move shine bright and clear.

De Bèze was eyeing the weaving tip of Gisborne’s sword with patent scorn. “Come now, fellow,” he drawled. “I think you’ll find we’ve got you cornered, and you don’t know how to use that thing anyway.”

“You think so?” The reply was deceptively casual. Cornered Gisborne was, and quite literally, in the angle between two walls; on the other hand this ensured no one could come at him from side or rear. Meanwhile, the heavy trestle was in front of him, forcing any attackers off balance as they lunged at him. He was in with a chance of holding out till help arrived. Nor did it hurt that this Osmond de Bèze had chosen to invest more in his clothes than in his hirelings; their weapons were ill-cared for, the blades notched and spotted with rust, while the men themselves were a motley crew beneath their ill-fitting mail. There was not a decent musculature among them, despite the bulk of some.

One tall bruiser with too much poundage under his belt rushed him, slashing wildly over-arm. Gisborne recognised the move very well; he’d used it often enough to intimidate an opponent into getting himself killed without the need to work up a sweat himself. A twist, and the sword had flown out of the fellow’s hand, leaving him clutching at the thin ribbon of red that dripped from his wrist as the tarnished length of metal went skidding across the floor.

Two more were coming at him. Gisborne let the force of his backhand rebound to jar the second blade, leaving both men cradling sprained fingers; then three others were moving forward, cautiously this time, but making the mistake of advancing on the flats of their feet, all but begging him to overturn the trestle on them as they reached for him.

Over they went, sprawling like a clutch of woodlice evicted from their nest. He took in a ragged gulp of air as they scrambled up, retreating to regroup; for soon they were bearing down on him again in a concerted effort of angry blows and battle cries. Where had that useless bastard Reynault got to? he wondered, snatching another breath. What steward worth his salt would run off and leave the manor to a second-rate confidence trickster and his bunch of lawless ruffians?

 **HIS** manor!

Suddenly Gisborne knew no more. The cold bright rage ignited and become flame, licking down his arm and along his blade to wreak blazing havoc on the foe. Somehow the trestle had been kicked aside, leaving him open to attack, but by now he was beyond all fear and pain and reasoned thought. The battle joy of his Norse forbears had come upon him, and he thrust and parried, parried and swung, wild as any berserker from a dragon boat.

His ears were filled with grunts and groans and screams of agony and the discordant ring of steel, while the acrid reek of blood and sweat raked at his nose and throat. Through a fiery haze, he saw the double doors of the hall swing wide and hunched shapes charge in like a herd of stampeding bulls.

Come on you cowards, his mind shrieked at the newcomers. I’ll fight you to your death and mine!

De Bèze had fled by the time he fell back into himself, dripping with sweat, a multiplicity of cuts and bruises singing a dissonant song of pain. Reynault hove into his bleary line of sight, directing operations to a roomful of brawny village men; the stampeding herd had been allies, not the foes his fevered thoughts had suggested to him. One was dragging a body out by the belt and mopping at a bloody nose with the other hand; another whirled as a mangled intruder groaned, finishing him off with his mattock. “Puttin’ him out of his misery,” the man commented matter of factly, leaning on the stave.

Sitting over the remains of his interrupted supper much later, Gisborne addressed the man who sat across the trestle from him, quietly cutting himself a slice of chicken with a fancy jewelled toy of a knife. “You took your time,” he said. “Glad you could join me, even if it was just about over.” He leaned back in the elegantly carved wooden chair, doggedly refusing to acknowledge his protesting muscles. He’d ceased to notice them during the fight; now they’d set up a constant grumble that threatened to rise to a scream. “So,” he added, to distract himself. “Anyone you know?”

The steward pursed his lips and shook his head. “A bungler, however,” he observed. “Lacking the common sense to think it through. And arrogant enough to discount his opposition.”

A corner of Gisborne’s mouth lifted. “Any idea why he’d choose to crawl out of the woodwork now?”

“No… And I doubt he will be back for a long time; not after the reception we gave them… _You_ gave them. But I shall make enquiries… Messire.”

The two men exchanged glances, each acknowledging the part they had played that day. Reynault accepted another hunk of bread and shared the memory of how the intruder had flung himself over his horse’s neck and fled along with those of his broken and battered henchmen still capable of following. The rest were being dealt with even now by the triumphant villagers and their well-blooded picks and spades.

The meal was finished in a comfortable silence that was new between them. But as he lay on the settle that night, nursing his aches, Gisborne realised that his hand might well have been forced. Incompetent bungler though de Bèze had been, his appearance was driving him to a decision he was unwilling to take.

Dawn was fast approaching by the time his brain had ceased to turn his thoughts this way and that like butter in a churn.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

The shadows were receding into the far corners of the chamber, heralding the end of another restless night and the arrival of another day. Jehane woke to the scrape of the kitchen door, followed by the knock of wood against the step as Berthe kicked off her clogs to pull on the coney-fur slippers she loved.

“Berthe!” she called, her decision made at last. She was still latching the belt of her bed gown as she ran down the stairs before she could change her mind. “I am going into Avallon this morning. Tell Hamelin to have Blancheflor saddled for me within the hour.”

The stolid serving girl sucked in her cheeks and shuffled the prized Yuletide slippers on the stone flags. “I don’t rightly know 'bout that, mum,” she said. She’d taken to offering her opinions freely since she returned to Vignoles after Peronete’s lying-in, her self-importance bolstered by her experiences in the birthing chamber. “You never know who’s about these days, what with our king and their king from that there Engerland forever at each other’s throats up north. And all of it bound to come down here afore long, you mark my words!” She picked up a brush from her bucket and scrubbed ferociously at an invisible stain on the trestle, as if by so doing she could scour such unpleasantness away.

Finally she abandoned the offending blemish and went to bang her cooking pots about. “There’s talk the devil himself has been seen hereabouts,” she confided over her shoulder with dark relish. “A gurt black brute he is, on a gurt black horse, skulking around to jump out at God-fearing folk when they least expects it.”

Jehane’s thoughts flew to the ruffian who’d treated her with such contempt in her own stable yard. He’d been a ‘gurt black brute’ all right, from the top of his unkempt head to the toes of his down at heel boots. She’d berated herself a hundred times for lacking the presence of mind to repay the arrogant fellow with a resounding slap of his own, right across his sneering mouth. Ultimately this assault on her person and her dignity was a minor irritation when compared with the grim news from Fontevrault. All the same, it had contrived to carve out its own poisoned space inside her head.

Yet it had been some time since the mortifying incident had taken place and vagrants were not known to linger long in a neighbourhood. More to the point, she'd seen no sign of a  'gurt black horse' when he'd invaded her yard; he must have been tramping the countryside on foot for weeks, if not months, judging from the state of his clothes and boots.  There'd been moments when she'd wondered why someone so down on his luck had returned her valuable mare; then she'd realised Blancheflor was recognisable enough to be more of a risk than an asset to him, with the penalty for horse-stealing being so harsh. “The fact remains, Berthe, that I have business in Avallon this morning,” she insisted aloud, her tone brooking no further argument.

The girl’s broad brow furrowed in doubt; then she brightened. ““Ham’s granda was going to walk into town this morning, along of his lettuces and new peas. Right tasty they are for a bit of a dainty supper, with a touch of nice fat bacon at the bottom. Them fancy town ladies can't get enough of ’em.”

She stirred the re-heating pottage vigorously as a barrage of footfalls thundered down the stairs. For once the children had not absconded at dawn, chastened perhaps by being sent supperless to bed the night before for coming home late yet again, dishevelled and breathless with some mischief known only to them.

“You could take the little cart with him, nice and proper,” the servant continued, setting out turned wooden bowls. “Bit o' the mare’s fancy tack on old Flopears and one of your good blankets on the seat and you’d be all set.”

Flopears was their ancient donkey, inherited from Vignoles’ previous owner. He was old now for regular work, but the children lavished care on him, grooming him and feeding him choice tidbits. He’d be able enough for an out of the ordinary jaunt, Jehane supposed, and in truth her mare was too skittish these days to be trusted much beyond the manor bounds. Even so, she gritted her teeth to hide her frustration. Matters had come to a pretty pass when your retainers conspired to save face for you.

Yet she said nothing as her offspring burst into the room, cheered somewhat by the fact that they did not clamour to come with her, too taken up with hashing over the adventures of the previous day. “Ham said the rest of them scooted off with their tails between their legs,” Thierry giggled, and the conversation continued in excited whispers from behind hands.

Whoever was doing the scooting and why, Jehane decided she didn’t want to know. Instead, she sighed and made for the stairs.

 

 **The Town of Avallon** ,

Soon old Ernoul was setting her down before the church of Saint-Lazare, promising to return for her within the hour. Jehane gazed up wistfully at the stone prophets that guarded the double doors -tall attenuated figures holding up their scrolls proclaiming God’s holy word. The signs of the zodiac curved high above them, a bridge across the heavens carved into the butter-coloured stone of the facade.

The cool dark of the interior was calling her, for the day was warming up already. Yet she dare not lose sight of the fact that she was here in the town for a purpose, and if that purpose held no promise of personal comfort, then that was the way it must be. She straightened her shoulders and turned resolutely away, crossing the sun-drenched setts of the square to the narrow building that housed the chambers of the _prévost_ of Avallon.

A chill washed over her as she ducked into the shadowed interior - a contrast with the heat of the square combined with nervous anticipation, rather than the pleasant respite promised by the church. Gooseflesh sprang up and she rubbed distractedly at her arms as she mounted the steps that led to the public antechamber. The room was already filling up with petitioners, a faint aroma of sweat mingling with the smells of dust and damp.

There was no sign of the _prévost_ himself as yet, nor of the unpleasant Tomas, his clerk; the door to the inner sanctum remained resolutely shut. There was nothing to do but choose a seat on the end of a bench from where she could catch the servant’s eye as soon as he appeared...

“My lady?”

Jehane started at the interruption. She must have been here for some time; names had been called, her demands for attention met with an apologetic shrug; though truth be told, lack of enthusiasm for the coming interview had stifled any more forceful remonstration on her part. At length she had retreated into herself, her thoughts moving sluggishly, under and over, like eels in a monastery pond. Now Tomas’ long form was looming over her, hooded eyes peering over his narrow nose.

“ _Maistre le Prévost_ will see you now…”

This chilly overture was cut short as the heavy door groaned open and a warmer voice cut in.

“My lady Jehane!” The _prévost_ himself was bustling forward, elbowing the clerk aside. “Why did I not know you were here?” He shot a reproachful glance at his self-appointed guard dog, though Jehane half-suspected the indignation was feigned. With a wife like his, Guiscard of Flavigny would be a man long accustomed to telling women what he thought they wanted to hear. “I fear Hawise is from home,” he informed her now. “She left a good two weeks ago. On family business, I believe; she will not be back for several days.”

“It was you I wanted to see, _Maistre_ Guiscard.”

Jehane rose to her feet, shaking out the skirts of her one good gown. Body heat and the squirmings prompted by an unquiet mind had creased the thin grey wool during the long wait. Initially she had been glad of the chance to gather her thoughts, though her efforts had proved vain in the end; the steely resolve that drove her here this morning had ebbed away as she sat on in this gloomy panelled hall, stranding her on the rocks of self-doubt.

Now she was being bowed to the _prévost_ ’s own chair and offered marchepane comfits and cool watered wine, though the words she’d come here to speak stuck in her craw, never mind the sweetmeats and the wine. For the children’s sake, she reminded herself fiercely. What did it matter that given a choice, she’d sooner cut off her own nose rather than come here like a suppliant with a begging bowl?

“I am here on a sad and delicate matter, _Maistre_ Guiscard,” she began, feeling her cheeks grow hot, and grimly ignoring the fact. “It concerns the Lady Alix, Countess of Vézelay. She and I were fostered together in childhood, so there was a closeness between us, you will understand.” She brushed restlessly at the fine copper strands that escaped her veils and forced herself to press on. “When I saw her last she was taken of a grave malady. I have had no further news of her for well over a year, and now a chance remark from a visitor leads me to fear she has gone to her rest.”

“And you were wondering if my records bear this out.” The _prévost_ pulled thoughtfully at a long-lobed ear, dislodging a rusty black cap. “The Lady of Vézelay, you say? Nothing comes to mind,” he said at last. “But then I am relatively new to this office as you must be aware, and the notification might well have come before my time. Tomas!” He raised his voice, but long moments went by before the clerk’s sharp nose preceded him into the room. “Bring me the rolls from December, the Feast of the Epiphany, to the present day. It was in the month of February, just after Candlemas, that we arrived, you may remember,” he added, turning to Jehane with a kindly smile. “But we shall check in both directions of that date, to make sure.”

“No…  As I thought, my lady, there is nothing here,’” he remarked some time later, smoothing the parchment before him with work-roughened, ink-stained hands. Not a man who scorned hard work, then, this Guiscard of Flavigny, unlike his wife with her pretentions of gentility. Unlike his clerk as well, or so it seemed; Tomas was even slower to appear when called a second time. “The mistress wanted the silver polishing while she was away,” was the truculent excuse. And off he slouched to retrieve the earlier set of rolls.

Jehane wondered at this unprecedented show of forbearance towards a subordinate on the _prévost'_ s part, but she was about to learn that Maistre Guiscard was no one’s fool. With a wife of Hawise’s wealth and wide family connections, he’d chosen a less confrontational _modus operandi_.

“His replacement is on his way as we speak,” he murmured, after the disobliging underling had been and gone. “A step-nephew - of mine, this time...” He gestured in the direction of the door. “That one is about to find his polishing days are at an end.”

This insight into the official's  family dynamics had gone some way towards distracting Jehane from the clamour in her heart; yet soon the tension was mounting again as Tomas returned with the second batch of scrolls and the line by line perusal resumed.

She was beginning to resign herself to another blank and feeling oddly comforted by the fact; perhaps the lady Maheult had been mistaken and her grim news concerned some other poor soul. Then Guiscard sat back with a grunt of satisfaction. “Here we are,” he announced, with the true bureaucrat’s triumph at locating an obscure fact. He stabbed a finger at the parchment before him. “This record from last autumn may be what you are looking for, my lady Jehane; one of the standard copies made of the edicts from Paris or Dijon that concern our little corner of the world. As you can see,” he added squinting at it again, then peering back at her. “It is badly rain-damaged and barely legible. I believe your weather was more than usually inclement at the time?”

The cold feeling welled up again in Jehane’s breast, leaving her no room to breathe.

“Small wonder that it escaped notice,” the _prévost_ was saying. “You can only just make out the words as it is. Yes... _Obit VIII Kal. Jun: Alix, Comtesse de Vézelay, at the Royal Abbey of Fontevrault_ …”

Jehane was no stranger to the archaic system of dating still current in clerkly matters. It was one more memory of the few she had of her father, hunched over his desk at the ducal palace in Ghent. The twenty-fourth of May, of last year! So it was certain then, with no room for doubt; such a joyous time for so sad a happening, and so long ago. The frozen void inside her grew, compressing her heart to a small cold stone.

For the children, she reminded herself again, forcing the air back into her lungs and steeling herself to ask the question that should be unthinkable from a loving friend; for only a cold, unfeeling harpy would countenance such a thought.

_Then what of the inheritance she promised to me?_

But Guiscard of Flavigny had not finished speaking. “The entry is dated the eighth of October,” he went on. “The eve of the Feast of St Denis. Indeed, an unpardonable oversight, my lady, if my predecessor was aware you were to be informed. Perhaps the evil weather distracted him.” He nodded at her gravely and peered at his scroll again. “Yes… Will proven at Dijon and Paris, it says finally. All deeds and covenants duly dispatched."

_Proven... Deeds and covenants dispatched..._

The words rang inside her head with the discordant clamour of a cracked bell. The deeds to Li Rossinholetz should have been in her hands by now. So Lys had forgotten them then; forgotten her promises! Why else had the death notice not come to her long since? Nor was that the whole of it; with this cruel turnabout the woman she’d thought of as another self had robbed her of all chance to mourn her, each and every one of her fondest memories destroyed by this perfidy.

Jehane never knew how she was able to detach herself from the murmured condolences and further offers of marchepane and wine, and remove herself from the room. Her whole being was in chaos - raging at Fate, raging at Lys, raging at herself for her mercenary thoughts while a vibrant woman lay dead before her time. Her flight propelled her through the empty antechamber and down the stairs, into the shadowed recesses of the entrance hall. And suddenly, she was gasping, the last of her breath driven from her as she slammed into a wall -a wall she could swear had not been there before.

A wall of living flesh, she realised belatedly. She had barely the time to register the long hard body, the iron grip that set her aside as easily as if she’d been a leaf in the breeze, before the booted footsteps receded; striding purposefully up the stone treads she had just stumbled down so blindly. A smell of horse and leather lingered in the air, overlain by the faintest waft of Castile soap.Still dazed, she fumbled for the latch of the door.

Outside, she found no respite. The May sunlight was dazzling, like a blow to the head; it bludgeoned at her as she trudged back across the cobbles to the church. Shading her eyes with a hand, she squinted up and down the square; she’d been much longer than she planned and the rendezvous with Ernoul was overdue, but there was no sign of him or his cart. Numbly, she wondered if she should be concerned; meanwhile, the cool depths of Saint- Lazare’s nave offered succour to her bruised soul and this time she saw no reason to resist.

Gratefully she signed herself from the stoup of holy water and approached the dim-lit altar, where a Virgin in a sky-coloured robe looked down on her with patient eyes. Ghost-flowers still floated before her, ethereal patches of light and colour swimming through her field of vision as she knelt in the soft-edged dark. No, she chided herself, soothed by the peace of the church. Lys would never have forgotten them. What did it say about her, Jehane, that she could lose faith in a life-long friend with such casual ease? Something had gone wrong between Fontevrault and Paris, or between Paris and Dijon, that was it! The deeds and conveyances confirming her ownership were lost or gone astray. She had only to send to one chancery office or the other and all would be well. And if she got no joy of the inquiry, she would go in person and refuse to move till she got to the bottom of it.

For the children’s sake, she repeated once more, rising to her feet with  new determination. For now though, it was time to go home. But when she emerged from the church’s nurturing confines, the donkey-cart was still nowhere to be seen. A stab of disquiet ran through her. before she remembered; Ernoul had often spoken of serving with one of the _prévost_ ’s stable hands on the old duke’s campaigns. His orders of lettuces and peas fulfilled, he would have assumed her business was not yet done and gone to swap war stories for a while, losing track of the time.

When she walked round to the postern gate, there indeed was Flopears and the cart, safely drawn up outside the stable. Ernoul himself was seated on an upturned bucket in the dim interior, a tankard of ale in his hand, chuckling softly over some tall tale.

“My lady!” The stable hand had risen from his seat on a log of wood as soon as he spied her in the doorway. “Step carefully, if you please.”

Jehane chewed at her lip and repressed a cutting remark. The morning’s revelations had taken their toll and she was impatient to get away to consider her next move. Besides, Father Joscelin’s lessons would be over by now, leaving her children to their own devices; never a good idea these days. And what danger could there be in two hoary old campaigners slightly the worse for ale, or the pair of dun horses that stood nervously whisking their tails in one of the stalls?

There was a sturdy chestnut gelding there too, tethered to a ring on the opposite wall; Master Reynault’s mount, she realised, with mild curiosity, wondering what business the steward of Li Rossinholetz had here.

Then _he_ came from out of the shadows; a creature of legend, tall and black and utterly wild. Jehane’s breathing stilled as the stallion stepped delicately towards her, nostrils distended, regarding her with luminous dark eyes. Then, having satisfied himself that she was no threat to his peace of mind, he turned aside to pluck a few strands of fresh clover from a nearby net. She stared at the scarred flanks and the raven silk banners of mane and tail and her heart stopped.

It was Ebène.

It was Lys’ horse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight.**

**The Town of Avallon.**

The entrance hall was cool and dark after the heat outside. 

A faint smell of sour sweat hung in the air above the odour of dust and stone, but all was silence. Had he roused himself to come all this way in vain? Gisborne’s eyes had still not accustomed themselves to the lack of light when he heard quick footsteps come down the stairs, and before he knew it, a slight body had slammed into him.

A woman, he realised from the feel and scent of her as he set her aside, his irritation mounting at this last minute obstacle to a course of action he'd been reluctant to take. There was a brief flash of grey gown and white veils as the outer door opened and she went outside; then he shrugged and made for the stairs himself. Time to lodge his credentials with the authorities before some other thieving scoundrel decided to chance his luck, and like any unwelcome task, the sooner it was done with, the better. 

It was no comfort to his impatient soul that the hour was later than he could have wished. The day had begun as Reynault arrived with a set of clean linen over one arm and the offer to “sponge his breeches down for him while he was in the bath.” Gisborne’s gaze had darted to the wooden staircase, the short hairs rising at the back of his neck. He’d still not mounted those oaken treads for reasons he was unwilling to admit to himself.

Even so, he couldn’t have faulted the steward’s assumption that a bath was in order today. Dirty and dishevelled was hardly inspiring of confidence in the hearts of officialdom, documents or no documents, and the truth remained that he’d been rank. When he came to think of it, the last time he'd immersed his whole body must have been in the bathhouse at Westminster during his stay at Prince John’s court, and his thoughts had been too full of plot and counterplot at the time to notice the presence of ghosts. He’d ordered the bath prepared downstairs instead, at the side of the hearth, and his bidding was done without a flicker of reaction on the stolid retainer’s face. 

. The water had been pleasantly hot. The scent of green herbs rose about him, stirring buried memories, and he’d shuddered, feeling insubstantial fingers probe the tight muscles of his neck and spine. Leave me alone, he’d thought, hounded by the past _._ I’m alive and I’m here in your manor, through no wish of my own. What more do you want of me?

A gentle touch in a tendril of steam, and that quiet voice in his head. _Soau,_ it seemed to say. _Soau, amics…_

For a moment he’d tensed, expecting the kiss of her Saracen blade against his throat. But no! It was what it was, he’d told himself; a bath and nothing more – except that half of the morning was wasting because of it.

Yet as he’d ridden up the hill to Avallon at his steward’s side, bathed and barbered, with linen and breeches refreshed and boots polished to a shine, it was with the uncomfortable feeling that multiple layers of his skin had been peeled away. Which was hardly surprising, he reflected now as he strode up the worn stone steps. Considering the dirt that had sloughed off him. 

Reaching the upper level, he found the anteroom empty, but the door to the inner office stood open, revealing the _prévost_ in his official gown and cap. He was setting his desk to rights after the business of the day, tidying wax and seals and locking them away; tying the ribbons on a collection of record rolls. He came out on hearing footsteps and invited him inside. "Guiscard of Flavigny, at your service," he said, introducing himself, courteously asking after Gisborne's health and his business and waving him to a chair with an offer of refreshments which Gisborne not quite so courteously refused.  

Soon he was watching, his frustration growing as the official dithered over his documents; back and forth, back and forth, pursing his lips then nodding till his sparse grey hair escaped in wisps from under his cap. At one stage he called in his clerk for a second opinion on the seals, leaving Gisborne cooling his heels until the man deigned to appear, a fusty bag of bones who sucked at his teeth and tutted doubtfully. 

Oddly enough, this seemed to work in his, Gisborne's, favour, for the _prévost_ hid a grim smile as his minion left. “My thanks, Messire,” he said at length, reaching for a wax tablet from beneath his desk and noting down the details for himself. Then he rolled up the parchments and handing them back with a bow. “You must pardon my caution, but you are not known in the area and it is my bounden duty to see that all is as it should be. As it is, your documents appear in order, and I shall be pleased to enter the information into the record at my earliest opportunity.”

By then Reynault had completed his errands and was waiting for him in the stable yard. Gisborne vented his foul mood by giving the stallion his head as they rode down the hill, his dark thoughts underscored by the rhythmic beat of hooves. Something told him this _Maistre_ Guiscard was not as easy a man to convince as he had chosen to appear. The careful ordering of his desk marked him out as a stickler for detail. Messages could soon be winging back and forth between the _prévost_ and his superiors; precisely the situation he’d hoped to avoid.

Well, it was done now and he would just have to live with it. His intention was for a peaceful stay rather than a permanent one; chances were he'd be long gone before matters came to a head. 

Meanwhile he found an unholy kind of satisfaction in leaving a dawdling donkey cart in the dust.

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

**I.**

“Do you have something to tell me?”

Maman’s face was like stone. Aubrey stood straight, saying nothing, grimly waiting her out until a little more information was on the table. Living with a guilty conscience on multiple counts was a precarious kind of existence. Had she discovered what else had happened when they’d taken Blancheflor out against her express orders, all that time ago?

_He’s hurting her…_

Oh _please_! Even Thierry understood enough to know where foals came from! A pity he’d only remembered it after his babyish panicking. He’d looked a fool, his scornful sibling thought, trying to ignore the return of the cold little mouse feet that pattered in the wake of that particular memory. But then foals were not always the result of a mating. Anxious daily checks of the mare’s flanks had revealed no visible sign that she was carrying. No, Blancheflor seemed none the worse for the experience.

That left the game of hare and hounds they’d played for the last few weeks with the man in black who rode the big black horse. At first they’d thought him more of a pirate, with his sinister clothes and his long wild hair. He had no scar or gold ring in his ear like the corsairs who roamed the Middle Sea; but he was like a sea-eagle all right with his steely eyes and his fierce beak of a nose. And when he shouted, his voice sent shudders right down to your boots.

Not that Thierry cared a toss about that, Aubrey reflected sourly. It was all a game to him. He liked the danger, he said; it made him feel deliciously shivery, like the tales old Ernoul told when he was sitting at his hearth, sharpening his mattock and recalling his days as a fighting man. “And with a single swipe of his gurt sword,” he’d say, “he lopped off their heads, and them poor fellows staggered round for ages, not realising they was that much the shorter by now.”

All Thierry had been concerned about was how headless men could see where they were going; but Aubrey hadn’t reached the grand old age of ten without learning real life was more complicated than it was in stories… And more painful. Papa, for instance, lying broken and trampled by the boar; had he died straight away? Or had they 'lopped off his head' to put him out of his misery?

It had been Thierry again who’d dubbed their quarry ‘the Knight'. “He’s just a bit untidy and cross,” he'd pointed out, unwilling to have his story-book fantasy challenged. “He probably needs to rescue a few damsels, that’s all.”

Aubrey failed to see how that would help. Damsels were simpering ninnies who lacked the gumption to rescue themselves. Yet from observing the stranger in his quieter moments, it was clear he laboured under the burden of some Dolorous Quest. He ate sparingly when he halted at noon to let the stallion graze, and when couched on the grass on sunny afternoons, he frowned and twitched in uneasy sleep.

Yet if you saw him from a distance and squinted your eyes, you could almost imagine him clad in mail and silken surcôte, with a banner on his lance and a blazoned shield on his arm. He rode tall and straight as any knight of legend;  like the wind, at one with his horse.

The way he mounted and dismounted was particularly worthy of admiration - with ease and grace and without reins or stirrup to assist him. Though as he touched ground he faltered at times, a hand to his ribs, while a deep-scored line appeared between his brows. As for the taunt of shooting like an Englishman, that had been purely to distract him from a silly boy who lacked all sense of danger. After his first experimental shots, his arrows had flown swifter and truer than any bowman Aubrey had seen before.

Thierry had been caught slipping out illicitly one morning before his lessons were done, and Maman locked him in their room to tend to his books. Glowing with the virtue of being several pages ahead, Aubrey had slid silently away to enjoy the spring sunshine, and was drowsing high among the branches of a sturdy elm when the ground shook with the thunder of hooves and the Knight had come over the crest of the hill. He rode bent low to the neck, his hair and shirt bannering in the wind, while the stallion ran belly to the ground like a streak of black lightening, as if all the demons of hell were on its heels.

He’d halted by the quicksilver ribbon of a brook, dismounting with his usual consummate ease and the usual momentary falter; while the great horse tossed its long mane, snorting extravagantly, so you could almost believe it was dragon flame he blew down his nose.

Intrigued, Aubrey had shinned noiselessly down the gnarled trunk, ignoring skinned hands and knees to creep closer; a daring scout risking life and limb to gather intelligence from the enemy lines. It had been high afternoon by then and hot; strong smells of horse and man-sweat mingled with the odour of bruised greenstuff as the Knight tore up great handfuls from the grass and began to rub the animal down.

The intrepid spy had looked on thoughtfully from a strategically-placed stand of brambles… And was suddenly aghast, toes curling painfully inside the scuffed boots as the sun picked out sickening details, unnoticed until now. Long stripes of scar tissue snaked over the stallion’s gleaming black rump and flanks; and yet the Knight’s big hands were not ungentle as he worked, and horse and man conversed amicably in their respective tongues. It hadn’t made sense.

Eventually he was done, the horse stretching down to wrap a muscular tongue round a tussock of grass, while its rider knelt to dunk his head in the stream. Aubrey had sucked distractedly at a scratched and bleeding thumb and thought of Thierry and his cavalier attitude to personal safety. Tracking the enemy was an important part of a warrior’s training, but the coney that sat up and twitched its whiskers at the fox too often ended up as the fox's dinner; unless an older coney was there to thump a foot in warning and lead old Renard off the scent.

And that older coney might not always be around to save the day.

The Knight was tall and strong and fierce all right, with his sneers and his bellowing and that great sword of his at the hip; yet it seemed he wasn’t entirely lacking in finer feeling - for an animal, at least. And there were only a certain number of times you could save a foolhardy little brother from himself.

Ruthlessly, Aubrey had suppressed the sudden sick jolt of fear and disengaged from the thicket’s clutches, grateful that the Knight was too lost in thought or his ablutions to notice the stallion’s nervous stomping and realise he was being stalked. In situations like this, surprise was everything; when size and weaponry were against you, you needed every advantage you could get.

“Your horse has a brave heart.”

The kneeling man had started in the most gratifying manner, then hauled himself to his feet, wiping his face on his shirt-sleeve. “He’s a horse, runt,” he'd said curtly, raking his interlocutor with his cold blue eyes. “He runs. That’s what they do.”

Aubrey shook a tousled head and gestured in the direction of the marred black flanks. “That’s not what I meant. Someone has hurt him. Badly. But he’s still strong.”

At this, the Knight’s long neck arched down and he'd averted his face, as if the thought lay heavy on him. And suddenly Aubrey had known that cruel _someone_ wasn’t him, and said so, the beast confirming the conclusion by sneaking up behind its rider’s back and sticking its muzzle imperiously in his hand.

Time then to come to the point of the exercise; Thierry’s continued existence on this earth. “My brother’s an idiot,” Aubrey had offered, scuffing at the grass with the toe of a boot, reluctant to face the Knight’s gimlet stare again. “But he’s only seven.” 

“Tell him to watch his tongue then, if he wants to be eight,” came the answering growl. “And while you're at it, tell yourself the same.”

“I’m ten,” Aubrey had retorted, stung by the implicit slur. “I can look after myself.” And demonstrated the assertion by strolling off, whistling and slashing at the bushes with the trusty sling-shot in a creditable show of aplomb, despite knocking knees and a niggling suspicion that this appeal to the Knight’s better nature could well have been in vain...

But that was then and this was now. Maman was waiting for answers, and it still wasn’t clear how much it was safe to admit. It _had_ to be the stalking. Well-bred children didn’t spy on grown-ups; nor did they answer back, rudely, when they got caught. But was Maman even aware that the Knight was still around? She’d made no mention of him since that first encounter, and no wonder, seeing as he'd slapped her on her bottom in her own stable yard. And if gossip of the dark rider was rife in the villages, she wouldn't have made the connection since his horse had stayed behind at Li Rossinholetz.

The question when it came was as blunt as it was unexpected. “Do you remember the Countess of Vézelay, who came to see us when you were so ill last year?”

Aubrey could only nod wordlessly, taken aback by the direction the conversation had taken now. “Did you see her horse? A big black stallion, so badly scarred on flanks and haunches, it would tolerate neither reins nor bridle, or take a saddle on its back.”

Aubrey’s brain whirled, casting about for damage limitation. “No, Maman.” The wide-eyed innocence was legitimate... at a pinch. After all, they’d been too ill to run to the window so they’d not seen the beast at the time, and its connection with the kindly countess was news to them.

But Maman was relentless, as she’d learned to be in her tussles with a skilful manipulator of the truth. “ And do you know why that disreputable _routier_ who turned up here with you and Blancheflor in tow should have been galloping that very black stallion past me not an hour ago on the Avallon road?”

Aubrey opened a dry mouth to profess innocence once more, for this too was new.

Then Maman delivered the coup de grace. “And have you any idea why Blancheflor should have failed to come into season again after your wilful disobedience that day?

 

**II.**

Interrogating Aubrey was like trying to catch a fish with her bare hands. The child was as slippery as a trout in a mountain stream.

Jehane sat in her darkening solar, dishevelled and still flustered from her expedition to Avallon, sorting through the events of the day. She’d known in her heart of hearts that her childhood companion must now be dead. But to have seen the confirmation in those rain-blotched letters of the _prévost_ ’s record; to have realised that her rights in the manor of Li Rossinholetz were now in doubt, had rocked her to the core.

And then to have encountered Lys’ great black stallion, lording it over _Maistre_ Guiscard’s stable yard! 

She put up a hand to massage her brow. Her head whirled with a dizzying array of questions, and no one had provided satisfactory answers for her.

The beast had come in while he was getting his lunch, Ernoul’s army crony had said; all he knew from his relief was to stay well clear and throw an apple or a handful of fresh fodder into the manger if it looked like making trouble. Master Reynault? He didn’t rightly know. “Manor business, I reckon. He was headed towards town, Willem said. You could wait mum, if you like.”

Jehane had shifted nervously from foot to foot, careful not to arouse the stallion’s ire. Wait she could not; if she was not at home soon, Thierry was going to abscond without attending to his lessons again. Given the family’s straitened circumstances, he was going to need every advantage he could get if he was to get on in life and Father Joscelin had already threatened to wash his hands of him if he didn’t apply himself to his books.

Time had passed. Already she'd been away too long. Reluctantly, she'd signaled to Ernoul with a nod and turned to leave. knowing she must leave the mystery of the stallion for another day, though her soul cried out to learn why Lys' beloved horse had made an appearance here.  

“Ernoul tells me that pretty mare of yours is in foal, my lady,” the stable hand had remarked as a parting shot, and the two friends had paused to exchange a congratulatory grin before easing themselves to their feet.  So _that_ was what the old villager had been mumbling about as they drove towards the town. She’d been too tied up in her own concerns to listen, contenting herself with awarding him a nod and a smile.

it was happy news indeed - to the casual bystander or an owner who had arranged the event. But not for her. A horse of such noble bloodlines would be delicate, needing to be cossetted throughout her pregnancy. Lacking a reliable mount,  her freedom of movement would be curtailed for months to come.

Then there'd been the question of the foal’s sire. Who knew what ugly brute of a rouncey had done the deed? And when and where had it happened, she'd wondered at the time. At least the mare was not breeding some fearful canker that would eat away at her insides, she'd consoled herself, fighting the sense of inevitability and despair as she clambered aboard the donkey cart for the journey home.

They’d set off down the hill, wheels creaking, Flopears protesting loudly as the ageing equipage nudged him into a faster pace than he thought fair. Suddenly, there was a thunder of hooves behind them and they pulled to one side – to see the _routier_ gallop past, leaving them in a cloud of dust.

And it had been Lys’ self-willed stallion that he rode!

Finally Berthe’s gossip had made an awful kind of sense. The ruffian had not moved on after all. Putting two and two together as the donkey cart jolted towards home, it had been no great feat to guess what had befallen Blancheflor on that morning when the _gurt black devil_ appeared and insulted her on her own home ground. Nor was she the only one to have some quarrel with him, it seemed; no sooner had she recovered her senses than Master Reynault had come haring past, his chestnut struggling to match the stallion's pace. 

And Aubrey had looked up at her with unblinking eyes and claimed ignorance of the whole affair, and she’d been too worn and disheartened to know how to punish the child! Listlessly she rose now and began preparations for bed. If anyone knew the whole truth in all its ramifications, it would be the man who’d ridden by in hot and vain pursuit of the ruffian on the great wild horse; the steward of Li Rossinholetz.

Jehane could scarcely contain her impatience through the hours of the night. She was up before dawn, pacing her solar till a reasonable hour for the visit came round.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne was at breakfast when the disturbance began.

"Open up!"

Christ on the cross! What now? He slammed his goblet down on the trestle and rolled his eyes. If it wasn’t those misbegotten peasant brats refusing to leave him alone, it was some overdressed popinjay beating down his door.

“Open **UP**!”

He was fast regretting his decision to succumb to idle curiosity, with a glance though the manor rolls rather than roaming his lands as he usually did _._ What tolerance he'd once possessed for such intrusions on his privacy was wearing very thin; he'd balanced the risk of exposing his presence to the Avallon bureaucracy against a little peace for himself before moving on. Now it appeared his efforts had been in vain.

Surely it was too soon for word to have gone back and forth between the mealy-mouthed Guiscard and his superiors? Unless his messengers had wings, like the pigeons favoured by a king who'd spent less than six months of his reign in a country that looked to him for just government. And what man of power would bestir himself with such urgency for the sake of an insignificant manor in the arse end of nowhere at all?

“Open **UP** , I say!”

It took him several moments more to realise that it was a woman's voice that harangued him, and a woman’s slighter fists that rattled the hasps of his door. He raised his eyes to the rafters and sighed, knowing Reynault was out somewhere and the disruption to his morning was not about to cease unless he put an end to it himself. Grudgingly, he pushed back his chair and hauled himself to his feet. Then he strode down the passage and tripped the catch.

No sooner had he done so than the door burst open and a slender figure fell in; indeed, she would have landed at his feet, were he not there to catch her, steadying her with his hands about her waist. It was the fleeting shadow in grey from the _prévost_ ’s stairs, and she was as shocked to see him as he was to find her there on his doorstep, raising a most unwomanly merry hell.

“Where is Master Reynault?" She tore herself from his grip as if his touch defiled her, drawing herself to her full height though the top of her cream-veiled head would have barely reached his chin. “He was not about in the village and I need to see him at once. And what are _you_ doing here?"

Gisborne folded his arms and leaned a hip against the wall. “I could ask you the same,” he retorted with a silken smoothness that belied his mood; he’d thought himself immune to most finer feelings by now, but he was stung by the contempt in her voice. What crime had he committed when she’d run into him in that dark entrance hall, or all but fallen on her face today?

 _Lepers, Gisborne, lepers_ , came the insidious whisper, and he shook his head to banish the malign presence, grateful that in this second life he’d neither asked for nor welcomed, one old demon’s appearances were few and far between. "Reynault is where he should be at this time of day,” he growled. “About his business. And as you can see…” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the trestle with its piles of books and parchments. “You are keeping me from mine.”

Her eyes were hard, and they glared back at him with the same grey-green defiance he’d met from the wench in the hen coop and the sandy-haired peasant boy. Did everyone belong to one great inbred family round here ?

“I shall speak to Master Reynault later as to why he has failed to have you driven off this manor,” she announced, dripping ice. “If indeed it is within his knowledge that you are here. But since you are, I have questions for you. Where did you steal the black stallion you were riding yesterday? And why did you allow it to impregnate my valuable mare?”

Her mare?

So this was the Lady of Vignoles - as neglectful of her property as she was of her tenants and serving girls. But whoever she was, he’d had enough of her. “If you knew my horse,” he purred, detaching himself from the wall and circling her like a hunting cat on the prowl, “You’d know that no one steals him and escapes with his life. Nor does anyone have much say if his wishes don’t agree with theirs.”

He paused in his pacing, halting behind her to thrust his face at hers. ”Not that I noticed your mare objecting at the time, however dainty you think she is. In fact,” he drawled, inches from her ear, “She couldn’t get enough! So if you want to avoid such situations in future, my lady, I suggest you keep a better watch on your livestock - _and_ on your kitchen wenches, since they seem to make a habit of waggling their haunches under the noses of passing strangers as well.”

Stepping away, he folded his arms again, content with his last few moments’ work; her face had suffused with blood, lending a hot wash of colour to her skin. She opened her mouth to speak; then she shook her head wordlessly and turned on her heel, stalking off across the yard to where the not so dainty mare in question waited patiently, flicking her ears at the antagonism that hung in the air.

“You’ll get a fine strong foal out of her,” he shouted after her."If you wait, I’ll draw up the stud fee for you!”

Predictably, she did not turn to answer, and he slouched against the doorframe, watching her ride away. Her hostility had confused as much as it annoyed him; she had no place to be so high and mighty with her tumbledown house and her rundown estate.

As for the pregnant mare, if that was anyone’s fault, it should be laid at the door of her own unruly peasantry.

 

 **The Vineyard at Li Rossinholetz**.

Master Reynault was at work in Li Rossingholetz’ vineyard; a neat figure in a brown tunic bending over the vines. At the sound of hoofbeats, he straightened, waving the villagers back to their tasks.

“Lady Jehane.” He wiped his brow on a square of linen, then tucked it into a sleeve. “We are leaf-stripping today. If the weather holds, this will be a good year - for all of us, I trust.” He bent again, parting the canopy to show her the clusters of small immature nubs, vibrantly green in the buttery morning light. “Our fruitset is progressing well.”

Jehane stared numbly down from the saddle at this harbinger of a bumper crop. She'd suffered so many crushing blows in the course of the last day; the confirmation of Lys’ death, the dashing of her hopes of prosperity, the cold hard truths behind her mare’s skittish moods. Now she'd found not Reynault, the manor’s loyal and upright steward but the ‘gurt black brute’ himself, coolly installed in Rossinholetz’ mansion and brooding over her like some monstrous bird of prey! It was an invasion, a wanton violation of a dear friend’s most private retreat, and the quick hot rush of hatred had taken her breath away.

 _Waggling their haunches under the noses of passing strangers_ …

The words echoed inside her head, their scorn washing over her like a dousing from a barrel of lye. Had he recognised her as the woman he’d mistaken for a kitchen wench, and was taunting her? Rage and shame had robbed her of coherent speech, and she'd left the scene - fled, she admitted now with a grimace - while she still retained some kind of mastery over herself.

Her fists clenched on the reins at the memory and Blancheflor danced uneasily, reminding her that If she let her resentment blind her, she would never get to the bottom of things. Forcing a smile, she inhaled deeply and nodded towards the vines, the finer points of viticulture offering a welcome distraction from the sick churning inside her gut. "A timely reminder, Master Reynault."

Dismounting, she went to examine the burgeoning green ranks for herself; crushing a tender leaf between her fingers and breathing in its musky citrus tang. The Li Rossinholetz vines could not match her rootstock from Beaune for quality, though they more than made up for this in maturity and skilful management. Her own rows were overdue for thinning if the immature berries were to make the best of the sun, bringing her the rich harvest Vignoles needed more than ever now. The prospect of such practicalities, the chance to act and be in control, steadied her abused nerves.

"We have great hopes ourselves this year, the saints be praised,” she said, pleased to hear how cool and calm she sounded to herself. "But Master Reynault... As your concerned neighbour, I must put this to you. You cannot be unaware of the intruder who makes free of your manor house, since you were in hot pursuit of him on the Avallon road yesterday.”

The steward’s face took on the bland expression of the discreet and dutiful retainer. “He is an English knight... Of Norman ancestry, my lady; from the shire of Nottingham, I believe.”

Jehane huffed, unable to see the relevance of the man’s status and origins. “Can you not appeal to the authorities to have him driven out? And how has he come by your lady’s horse?”

Reynault had the alert gold-brown eyes of a fox, but now they grew opaque. “He has documents, my lady.” He folded his arms and stood hip-shot in a disturbingly familiar pose. “The deeds and conveyances and a witnessed copy of my lady’s will; all present, and all of them correct. They were lodged yesterday with the _prévost_ in Avallon.” He shrugged, then remembered his position and straightened himself. “As to the horse, I thought it not within my remit to inquire. One thing I will say, though; Ebène was never a one to suffer fools and strangers gladly. The beast seems perfectly at ease with him.”

“I’m sure he is! To the tune of putting my mare in foal when I had no intention of breeding her.” Jehane paused to choke down her indignation. “My own children share the blame for taking her out,” she admitted, bitterly. “But a grown man should have known better. Seeing as he and the animal are such bosom friends.”

The retainer unbent enough to shake his head, a small smile of sympathy on his lips. “What’s done is done, my Lady Jehane. Blancheflor is from my lady’s most carefully bred stock and hardier than you think. She will serve you well, carrying or not - and give you a foal as valuable as herself. You would pay a fortune for a stallion of Ebène’s quality at stud.”

“And so I shall, your English knight informs me,” Jehane muttered, tucking copper tendrils under her veils as a straying breeze teased at them. Even the weather was conspiring against her, it seemed.

To this Reynault said nothing, merely raising his brows. Then he noticed the pair of villagers standing to one side, awaiting his attention. Jehane recognised the elder of the two as Mathieu, Li Rossinholetz' vintner; he was holding a bundle of rogue suckers, a frown between his hoary brows. “With your permission, my lady…?”

She was done here, anyway. There was no point in prolonging the conversation. Either the steward had no more information or he was not prepared to divulge it. He could not know that Li Rossinholetz was promised to her; at her own insistence, this had been a private arrangement between Lys and herself. Otherwise his well-developed sense of loyalty would have lain with the interests of his late lady and his manor, rather than with this stranger; this usurper who would give no satisfactory explanation as to why he was here.

There were documents, were they? Well, we’ll see about that, Sir English Knight! Documents could be stolen or forged.

Jehane touched her heels to her mare’s flanks before she remembered the animal’s delicate condition. But Blancheflor made no objection, affirming  Reynault's' assessment of her strength and stamina. She took off eagerly with a whinny of delight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz**.

Reynault was unusually subdued when he appeared at the supper hour, chivvying in a kitchen girl with a tray of food.

“I had a visitor this morning,” Gisborne remarked conversationally, cutting himself a slice of prime roast mutton before indicating that the steward should sit with a wave of his hand.

The retainer pursed his lips and took a chair. “At a guess, that would have been the Lady Jehane de Saint Aubin,” he said. "She holds the neighbouring manor and was my late lady’s closest friend; they were children together, or so I am led to believe, Messire.”

 _No one living knows of this..._ _Save for my women and my childhood friend, and she livesretired in the depths of the French countryside…_

Gisborne stared down unseeingly at his platter as the words came back to him, and the memory of a jagged scar running from knee to groin...

“Whoever she is," he said, rallying at length, "she accused me of stealing your lady’s horse.” He grinned reminiscently and stabbed at his meat with his eating knife. “I told her she owes me a stud fee, seeing as her mare is in foal to him.” And would he have dealt with the situation differently if he'd known of the connection? Probably not; he'd not been at his most charitable at the time.

“She would not have been best pleased,” the other man agreed. He seemed about to say more but clearly thought the better of it and Gisborne did nothing to prolong the conversation, wanting the incident over and done.  

Late that night, long after Reynault had taken his leave, he made himself approach the stairs at last; those stairs that had oppressed him from the day he arrived at Li Rossinholetz. A tight smile tugged at his lips as he set a booted foot on the bottom step. He was a ghost beset by ghosts, but he'd be damned if he’d allow himself to be harassed in his own house a moment more, by the living or the dead.

The open treads creaked softly as he mounted, and the candle threw wavering shadows on the lime-washed surfaces of the wall; but when he pushed open the door of the only bed-chamber, his shoulders relaxed and he released a breath he’d been unaware of holding in.

It was not a large room, but it was neatly if impersonally appointed. No trace of its former occupant met his eyes; no lingering aura of cedar and Grenada apple hung in the air, just a hint of beeswax and terebinth oil from the polished oak chest. There were poles for clothes, all empty, while the windows were shuttered but bare of hangings of any kind.

As was the bed; not the one he’d expected to see, the great travel bed where he had… His throat moved and he closed his eyes, banishing that treacherous train of thought. This was a narrow couch of plain light fruitwood; a nun's bed, were it not for the goose down mattress and pillows and the spotless creamy linen of the sheets.

He went to the window and flung the shutters wide. Beneath him, the orchard breathed out the scents of a late spring evening; fresh greenery and the warm promise of summer to come. The beauty of it sang in his head like pain.

Woman! What do you want of me? he thought, driven beyond endurance by it all.

 _This has nothing to do with what you can give,_ the quiet voice replied. _It is wishing with all my heart that you had what you need…_

Christ on the cross, and what was that? He turned from the window, slamming his fist against the frame. His thirst for status and power was long gone, turned to ash along with the rest of his world when Marian had gone out of it. He was nothing more than an empty shell, drifting through the dregs of this new life that had been forced on him.

That night he drank deep again. The quality of the wine made it easy enough to embrace the red silk oblivion; it clouded his senses and cushioned his thoughts. He’d neglected to close the shutters, but even in the small hours the breeze was not cold. It rustled through the leaves and slipped through the window to brush his cheek as he sprawled insensible on the narrow bed.

While the moon rose, and a nightingale sang long and liquid in a tree; a silver waterfall of sound to wash the dreams of blood and betrayal from his mind.

 

 **The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

Jehane sat alone in her solar as her children slept, watching the sky turn from flame and gold to the pin-pricked black of a starry night.

A pity she'd not been able to share her mare's buoyant mood, she reflected wearily, sipping at wine as sour as her frame of mind. Blancheflor had taken no harm from her excursion; the gallop had invigorated her and she'd eaten well all day before drowsing contentedly in her stall, oblivious of the very existence of _documents_ as was natural for her kind.

But documents there were and they'd been lodged in Avallon yesterday; Reynault had been quite confidant of that. A memory stirred, returning her to her latest encounter with the _routier_ and a detail that had escaped her in the heat of their battle of words; the smell of him as he prowled about her like some sleek and dangerous beast.  No longer rank and unkempt, his clothes and his person were freshly washed, exuding the self-same odour of Castile soap she’d noticed in the shadows of the _prévost_ ’s entrance hall.

If only she’d known him for who he was at the time and what this would mean for her! She could have stopped him, tripped him on the stairs, driven a dagger into his treacherous back...

Jehane grimaced at this flight of vengeful fancy and reined in her imagination to the realm of possibility. She might have followed him to _Maistre_ Guiscard’s office; denounced him as a forger and thief, pleaded her own case - the case she’d been too ashamed to speak of moments before, she reminded herself with a rush of exasperation for this fateful lack of foresight. Surely the official would have agreed that her moral right outweighed the claim of a stranger, a foreigner, with no discernable connection to the region and no one to vouch for him but a steward who was clearly hostage to a cunning usurper’s will.

She’d taken heart from the thought that the whereabouts of Li Rossinholetz’ deeds was not known for sure; not yet set down in oak gall ink in the _prévost_ ’s rolls, marking an end to the matter, once and for all. Then it had seemed possible that a mistake had been made; some accident, some oversight easily explained, and a note of query to Dijon or Paris would set things straight. Now a rival claim had appeared, and with the documents to back it up. Her task had just become a hundred times harder, and no amount of righteous anger could change that unpalatable reality.

Suddenly she was cold; she'd had the brazier lit earlier despite the warmth of the season, but the chill originated from within. She was left with no idea where to begin to sort out the tangle, her initial spark of defiance waning as the day progressed. Now it had sputtered and gone out like one of Berthe’s lumpy tallow rush lights, leaving a leaden sense of impotence behind.

Dispiritedly she touched a taper to the dying embers to light her way to bed. She sought her rest that night with a heavy heart.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven.**

**The Banks of the River Cousin.**

For once it was the turn of the little village guttersnipes to get caught with their britches down.

Ben had cast a shoe earlier in the morning and deigned to have a new one fitted by a farrier he seemed to know and trust; though the stallion’s cooperative mood might have had more to do with the chips from the block of precious rock sugar kept expressly for such times. Gisborne had shrugged, amused by the beast’s expensive tastes, and elected to explore his domain on foot instead.

Reynault had been mooting the idea of a fish pond, so he’d walked down to the river to investigate. The shade and the plangent rush of water over moss-covered rocks soothed him, smoothing rough edges after the previous morning’s invasion of his peace and privacy and the hauntings and over-indulgences of the night. The stream ran swiftly here, making a water mill a possibility; always a prime source of additional revenue. Purely as a thought experiment of course; he had no intention of staying around to see the project come to life.

Not that he’d let himself be driven out by the likes of Osmond de Bèze or a little shrew from the neighbouring manor who had no right to the title of lady as far as he was concerned. They seemed to breed them like that over at Vignoles-sous-Avallon, he thought sourly, what with those uppity peasant brats and the wanton serving wench. They must have shared the same wet-nurse’s milk.

He was scouring the river bank for a suitable place to divert a channel when shrill shrieks rang out, underscored by the hollow _pock_ of wood against wood. He elbowed his way through the bushes to find two small and ham-fisted swordsmen slogging it out on the impromptu tourney ground of a woodland glade.

“Aping your betters?” he drawled, strolling forward to lean his long body against a tree.

The sandy-haired urchin whirled, flinging out a challenge of his own. “We’re all God’s children, Manon says.” He paused to rest on his makeshift sword, breathing heavily and brushing the sweat from his brow.

“We just have different jobs, that’s all,” the runt of a brother piped up, eyes asquint behind the unruly curtain of pale hair. “Ain’t no shame in getting a mickle of honest muck on your hands, me lord.” Once again, the country burr was fading in and out. “If it weren’t for t’tenants, Manon says, them _betters_ ’d have nowt to eat, and then where would they be?” He turned to his ragged sibling, waving his stick in wild arcs. “Have at me, Aubrey! My Durandel against your overgrown eating knife! Before she notices we've gone.”

Durandel?

Gisborne was about to go and box their ears for them, but the reference to the legendary sword stopped him in his tracks. Was the _Song of Roland_ the property of village storytellers now? He snorted dismissively. Whatever the case, they were like horseflies, the pair of them, buzzing around him no matter how hard he slapped them down. As for this Manon of theirs, she was a presumptuous baggage with too much to say for herself. Like maid, like mistress, he supposed; both of them richly deserving of a swat on the rump.

He chose instead to slouch against his tree, watching the feeble performance with a sneer on his face. His boyhood arms master would never have let him hear the last of it if he’d flailed about this way.

His opinion must have been obvious, for after a while the older boy stepped back, tucking his improvised weapon under his arm. “If you’re so good,” he said, the grey-green gaze as sharp as a blade, “Why don’t you come and show us how it’s done instead of propping up that tree and looking down your nose at us?”

Why indeed, Gisborne asked himself, when the hot rush of anger had warred with the nagging of his scars and lost. Because for years he’d looked on the lower orders as a scant degree above the dumb animals, put on this earth to provide services and food. Yet this was not the attitude he’d learned at his mother’s knee; his nascent sense of stewardship and responsibility had turned to suspicion and hostility with the base ingratitude of the Locksley peasantry, so quick to drive out the newly orphaned children of their gentle and generous lady on a scheming bailiff’s word.

Though there'd been a time when he was reminded to think differently, in a way that had just found expression in the words of two insolent peasant brats.

 _Marian_ …

All men were of equal worth to her, highborn and villager alike. And if he’d ever relented following some harsh decree, it was for her sake, and hers alone; to hear her voice caress his name and see the light of approval warming her fine eyes. He swallowed, setting the sweet memory aside for quieter times, when he could allow himself to dwell on it and brace for the pain it would bring him in its wake.

Meanwhile, deference to the nobility was in as short supply in this Burgundian backwater as it had been back in Locksley, he reflected, collecting himself and returning to the present with a grimace.Though it was different here somehow. He’d sensed no malice behind it; rather, it was a sturdy, good-natured brand of independence that drove them, an oddly refreshing tendency to speak their mind, tempered by a fierce loyalty to their manor and pride in a hard day’s work. The sight of the Li Rossinholetz men taking on de Bèze’s bully boys with solid enthusiasm had been a revelation to him; indeed, under Reynault’s direction they’d given their new lord the benefit of the doubt, pulling together in field and farm to make the holding run smoothly for the benefit of all. Until the moment they found him lacking, no doubt...

All the same, teaching swordplay to a pair of snot-nosed runts was taking the concept of benevolent lordship a step too far.

Then he looked at them again, seeing them as _she_ , Marian, would have seen them; small and bright-eyed, as full of life as any child before the realities of life ground them down - as they’d done to a boy who’d once played with wooden swords himself, making him the minion of a sadist, and a murderer in his own right.

 _Life is cruel_ , whispered a voice in his mind and he shook his head impatiently, banishing this echo of someone else who had found value in the lowliest kitchen drudge, or an aged tirewoman with aching knees.

“What?” he jeered, drawing himself up. “And land you in worse trouble than you can get into by yourselves?”

He strode away, eager to put them out of sight and mind. Yet somehow he found himself flinging a last word over his shoulder as he reached the edge of the glade.

“Keep the tip up, can’t you? And keep moving. Plant your feet like that and you’ll grow roots.”

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

It had been late before Jehane fell asleep at last.

She'd tossed and turned in troubled dreams for what remained of the night, reliving the shock of finding the _routier_ boldly ensconced at Li Rossinholetz, and Reynault's bland acceptance of his right to be there.

Morning brought no wiser counsel, but she could no longer afford the luxury of dwelling on the matter. The future was yet to come, but the present was here and now. There were a thousand things demanding her attention or she'd run the risk of losing what she already had in reaching for some bright possibility that hovered just within her grasp.

The new season’s vegetables were beginning to mature in the kitchen garden and Berthe must be directed into putting them up in crocks for the winter months. Meanwhile a search must be made of the grounds for the most succulent handfuls of greenstuff for Blancheflor’s feed. She was loathe to turn the precious mare out to grass on the common land for the extra nourishment she needed for a healthy foal while the likes of the ‘gurt black brute’ and his stallion were about. The kitchen girl had suggested little Elodie from the village for the task when she came to collect the eggs, but the child was a dreamer and tended to wander off to find hiding places and think her thoughts.  Jehane picked up a crust from the crock and went out, chewing. There was nothing for it but stock the manger herself;

A piping drone came from the main hall as she re-entered the house, punctuated by the deeper-toned prompts of Father Jocelyn. Yet again the children had absconded at an unearthly hour, darting in soon after the priest’s arrival, covered in grass stains and river mud. At least they were at their lessons now; retribution would have to wait.

 "There’ll be a nice bit of soup from the off-cuts,” Berthe remarked as she came in, taking a break from her preserving to stir the bubbling pot. Which meant the midday meal was in hand, the children were gainfully occupied for the remainder of the day and she could get up to the vineyard to talk to her vintner and inspect her vines. It was sobering to think how long it was since she'd been there. Fabien’s reports were all well and good, but nothing took the place of seeing for yourself, as the rich promise of Li Rossinholetz’ fruitset had reminded her yesterday.

She would take her time and go on foot rather than taking Blancheflor out or summoning Ham and the donkey cart; perhaps the walk would shake some kind of stratagem loose, something to suggest her next move in the battle for her rightful inheritance; for battle it would be, the _routier_ 's hostility had made that all too clear.

It was mid-afternoon when she headed for home, cheered by the vineyard’s rude health. Fruitset here was in advance of the Li Rossinholetz vines by about a week, the immature nubs plumping one by one thanks to the sunnier aspect of the _terroir_   and the good rootstock from Beaune. Yet she was still no nearer to knowing how to challenge the _routier's_ spurious claim. In her head she’d composed a hundred heartfelt pleas and fired them off to destinations near and far; though by the time she entered the gates at Vignoles, each seemed more ineffectual than the last.

Dispiritedly she climbed the stairs to wash the dust from her face and body and don her old patched overgown; meanwhile the children had started on their Latin lesson, the dry grammar sweetened from Father Jocelyn's store of old Roman tales. She was in the kitchen, moving the soup kettle over the fire for herself when she heard the beat of approaching hooves. Moments later there was a rap at the door, and a messenger stood on the threshold proffering a parchment, rolled and elaborately tied with a ribbon of crimson silk. The man was a stranger and bore no badge on his tunic of dull mulberry wool, but she recognised the seal on that parchment all too well.

It belonged to Hawise of Flavigny.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne's encounter with the would-be swordsmen had been an uncomfortable reminder that he should put in a little training of his own.

The fight with de Bèze and his men had been exhilarating at the time, but he'd paid the price in protesting muscles the following day, despite the grudgingly endured soaking in the tub. Meanwhile the knotted scars in belly and back continued to hamper him whenever he was least expecting it; he needed to loosen up or learn how to compensate.

He ate a light breakfast, then went into the orchard to run through his routine, growing increasingly impatient with himself. His moves were ungainly, his thrusts lacked force and direction; in short, he’d lost his edge, and in a fight, this could mean the difference between life and death. He was panting heavily as he paused to retrieve a towel from the limb of a tree.

He was drying his face when there was a disturbance in the branches above him, an oddly persistent rustle in the still morning air. “All alone today?” he asked with weary resignation as the sandy-haired urchin scrambled down, as limber as the monkeys seafaring men bore on their shoulders during trips ashore.

“Thierry’s... otherwise engaged.” It was an elegant turn of phrase for a ragged village brat. “Where’s your horse?”

“Otherwise engaged.” Gisborne parroted the phrase back at him; the shoeing had not gone well yesterday and Ben had been persuaded back to the farrier for a second try. “And minding his own business, too.”

This pointed remark went clean over the boy's tousled head for there were other matters on his mind.  “Blancheflor’s pregnant,” he confided in a rush; which was hardly news to Gisborne, who said as much.

“It was my fault,” the lad volunteered, with an unexpected sense of justice. “I’m the eldest. I should have stopped Thierry from taking her out. Manon wasn’t best pleased.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t. Nor was her lady, the last time I saw her.” Gisborne permitted himself a grim smile. “She came banging at my door at crack of dawn the other day when she’d have done better to set her own house in order first;.. Starting with you and that Manon of yours; who is she, anyway? Is it your aunt or your sister that goes rummaging in henhouses with her arse in the air? 

To his surprise, the runt threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “That was my _mother_!” His eyes glinted with some secret delight. “And she wasn’t best pleased with you! I’d never seen her struck dumb before.”

So it was _Maman,_ then, not Manon. An understandable the mistake, Gisborne supposed. given the local country burr. A rogue muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth and he turned away, suppressing his own amusement at the picture of outraged womanhood the boy had conjured up for him; the bosom heaving under the thin undergown, the streaming red locks adding to the impression of fire in her eyes. He'd not been so entertained in a long time;  nor so interested; until he'd reminded himself of the downside of dealing with serving girls with minds of their own.

He sheathed his sword and sank down on a tussock of grass, his back against the trunk of a nearby apple tree. His young tormentor set his fists on his hips and examined him closely, cocking his head “You look tired,” he announced at length, and unslung the costrel he’d been carrying over his shoulder. It was a costly thing, made of embossed red leather with a silver spout and cap, in a style that was familiar in a vaguely uncomfortable way.

_A heavy silver inkhorn, chased with a Saracen script..._

Rejecting the thought, Gisborne held out his hand, wiped the mouthpiece with a sleeve and took a cautious sip. It was barley water, like his mother had had made for them when they were children, though this had a subtle hint of citrus and mint.

“So. Where did you steal this?” he asked, holding the costrel up and shaking it meaningfully.

“I brought it from home,” the young tearaway retorted, stung. “Stealing’s more Thierry’s style. I told you, he’s an idiot. He hasn’t the sense yet not to make trouble for himself.”

“And you do?” Gisborne took another pull at the barley water.

But instead of hot denials, the lad pressed his lips together and thought it through. “Not always,” he replied after a moment, with refreshing candour. “But I do my best to get Thierry out of his scrapes if I’m around to keep an eye on him. He’s a pain, but he _is_ my brother.”

“You’re a dogged little runt, aren’t you? But loyal in your own way..." Once again, Gisborne found himself diverted against his will. The audacity, the self-assurance bordering on arrogance; the utter fearlessness of these young wastrels was breath-taking. Their quick repartee betrayed a keen intelligence or he’d have thought they lacked the wit to be afraid of him.  It was a novel experience for Vaisey’s ruthless enforcer to be treated with such nonchalance, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

“Loyalty, honour and a willing heart,” the 'dogged little runt' replied. ”Those are the knightly virtues, are they not?”

Gisborne supposed they were. He stared down at his boots, unable to meet the frank young eyes, where idealism burned so brightly, and yet so impossibly given the boy’s lowly station in life; the idealism that had once been his, only to have been cast by the wayside long ago.

“If I was a knight, I’d fight and cover myself in glory, and riches, too,” the boy was saying, staring down wistfully at Gisborne’s sheathed blade.

“You might; if you had a horse and sword... And you weren’t a scrawny peasant brat,” Gisborne remarked caustically, the put-down making him feel more himself again.

At this, the grimy face took on a stubborn, closed expression. “The great Guillaume le Maréchal was only the fourth son of an impoverished father,” the child muttered, pushing out his lower lip. “And I’ve been practising. Tip up, you said, and keep moving?” He brandished an imaginary weapon. “If a boar came out of that thicket now,” he asked, his gaze suddenly intent, “Could I kill it, if I’d practised hard enough?”

Gisborne noted the slack wrist and he rolled his eyes. “Flap around like that and all that will get killed is yourself! By some young guttersnipe, most likely; a mouthy runt with a sling-shot who doesn’t know his place." Yet the youthful flight of fantasy had stirred memoires of more innocent times, though dragon-fighting had been his engagement of choice at that age.

“Are there many boars in your orchards round here?” he asked, inexplicably diverted once more. “I doubt your William Marshal could manage one on his own; one man against an enraged pig is always an unequal fight, never mind how skilful he is with a blade.” He hauled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth at the lingering stitch in his side. “Two with long spears are a better bet. Why the interest in boars?

The lad looked away, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Someone I knew got killed by one,” he mumbled, and there was pain in his voice. The spirit had drained out of him like the air from a pricked bladder; all at once he was much younger and smaller somehow.

Gisborne groaned inwardly. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to engage with any of this, or indeed on any level at all. These two little arsewipes had stalked him and hassled him, disrespected and talked back at him, and they deserved to be whipped for it, nailed by the ears to the stable door - if only he could bring himself to deal with the inevitable sullen faces and obstructive tactics of the manor’s entire work force. Why stir up trouble for himself when he’d soon be moving on?

Yet if he didn’t do something, and soon, they’d continue their project of making his life a misery until the day he mounted up and rode away. Then he remembered his own first swordplay lessons in the yard at Locksley, and he grinned to himself. He’d been seven years old and his brand new instructor had pressed him mercilessly, giving no quarter till he was fainting and sick, his whole body a screaming festival of pain. And the miserable bastard had never even drawn his own weapon; he’d done it all with words alone.

Why not give this little upstart exactly what he wanted and more? That would teach him to keep his distance, and if the boy passed the warning on to his pipsqueak brother, so much the better.

He shrugged and gestured about him with a sardonic smile. “Find yourself a stick then, and let’s have a look at you.”

 

**The City of Dijon, Burgundy.**

The chapel of Our Lady of Good Hope was dim and cramped, and it smelt of tallow and the dust of ages past. There were other, grander churches, but it was near to the palace and Jehane had grown to prefer it here; they had come to pray on most mornings since they’d arrived.

 It was cool after the glare outside, a haven from the late May sun that danced off stone and shot splinters of light into unwary eyes. The silence was almost tangible after the noise and bustle of the streets, for the houses were narrow with steep-pitched roofs of patterned tile; they magnified every sound and funneled the rotting garbage stink of too many people living close together, making it difficult to breathe.

Aubrey knelt at her side in a hard-won attitude of prayer, while Thierry squirmed like a speared lamprey a hand’s breadth away. She’d thought the children would be ecstatic at the prospect of this adventure, their first visit to a great city, but they’d been ambivalent at best. She reckoned the stricture of the hated best clothes had played some part in it, if mutters of 'tricked out like a pair of _jongleur'_ s performing monkeys' were to be believed.

Then there was the continuing suspicion that they had other, more alluring, fish to fry, which made it unthinkable to leave them behind. They were drawn to trouble like flies to honey at the best of times. Thierry hared about the countryside like some tatterdemalion peddler's child rather than give himself to his books; Aubrey rejoiced in the acquisition of knowledge but was possessed of the quick brain and good memory that made the process easy, leaving ample time for a more thoughtful and determined brand of assault on a mother's peace of mind.

She muffled a sigh behind joined hands. The child still bore the bruises from some mysterious 'trip over an old root' that had left jarred muscles and swollen wrists; a body that shook with exhaustion, yet a face glowing with an inexplicable aura of triumph and delight. Jehane shifted on numb knees and suppressed another sigh. Sometimes she despaired of understanding what was going on in that volatile young head.

And meanwhile the statue of Our Lady gazed down on them as she had done for the past week, a secret smile on the narrow dark face. She was far older, her expression more remote than the blue-robed Virgin in the church of Saint Lazare in Avallon, and if there’d been any sign of her famed miracles of late, she, Jehane, had yet to see it. She merely cradled the Christ Child and looked down a wooden nose at them that matched the one on the _routier_ ’s uncompromising visage for length. Jehane shivered as a chill washed over her that had little to do with the chapel’s dim interior. Perhaps she’d already exhausted her share of blessings from Heaven’s Queen.

She'd unrolled Hawise's message with much trepidation, quickly replaced by a dawning sense of release as the enclosure fell into her hand and she broke the neat seal. The _prévost_ 's wife was returning from her family business in Flavigny, so her accompanying note had informed her, and had called in at Dijon to visit her dear friend, the lady Maheult. The tirewoman had hastened to write herself, extending an invitation to join them and urging her to accept.

The prospect of several days in the company of Hawise of Flavigny had been far from pleasant; even so, this gracious invitation was the answer to her prayers. She'd agonized over the lack of safe channels for her written appeals; _Maistre_ Guiscard seemed approachable and might have been prevailed upon to help, but the same could not be said of his clerk. Supposing they escaped his meddling and reached their destination intact, they might well lie ignored under piles of more pressing demands; it was just such a failure of bureaucracy that had landed her in this impossible situation after all. As for a such journey in person, the logistics had seemed so daunting she’d laid them aside to consider later as a desperate last resort.

Now here was her opportunity to present her claim to the authorities herself. She'd felt almost light-hearted as she waited for the promised carriage to arrive, her mood soaring despite the bone-shaking judder of iron-rimmed wheels as they rolled along, leaving the Avallonais and the _routier_ ’s brooding presence behind.

Yet as she contemplated the Virgin’s stark features, it was as if his oppressive spirit had followed her here; invading her thoughts, looming over her like some great black thunder cloud. What gave him the power to haunt her this way? She was no shrinking maiden. She was a woman who’d held her own against the world for years, while he was nothing but a thief; a bully and a blackguard, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw. Nothing would persuade her that the intelligent and discerning Countess of Vézelay had come to know a man like that, much less favour him over a childhood friend in the matter of her will. His possession of documents and Lys’ great black stallion was meaningless; he had stolen them somehow, she was convinced of it, and she was here in Dijon to prove it so.

But Thierry could contain himself no longer at last. “Can we go?” he asked, in the carrying whisper that was all his own. “I want to see the little owl again.” This was a small stone carving, made by the Romans of old, it was said, and unearthed when clearing out a drain. Touching it was supposed to bring luck, but so far it had done no better than the Virgin, Jehane reflected acerbically. Her eagerly-anticipated progress had been minimal thus far.

Yet the indulgence would buy her a few hours good behaviour, something she sorely needed today. She nodded and rose to her feet, smoothing down the cream linen veil and grey woollen gown that were her own best clothes. Was it the drab colour or the chill of the church that made her face look so pinched and old when she gazed into the polished metal mirror each night as she plaited her unruly hair for bed? Or was it the endless round of idle chatter? Gossip was not her favourite activity at the best of times, and gossip with an ulterior motive was even more of a strain on her equanimity.

With Maheult’s help, they had visited many of the women who had known the Lady Alix during her time at the ducal court; trailing round close chambers and over-heated bowers, searching for clues; some seemingly insignificant scrap that would give some insight into her friend’s state of mind during her last and final visit there. Something that would lead her to concrete evidence before she laid her case before the authorities.

With Hawise of Flavigny dogging their footsteps, she’d been restricted to the most roundabout of inquiries thus far, picking up little beyond the reciting of condolences and pious wishes for the soul of the deceased. This afternoon, however, was the time when her luck could change. The _prévost_ ’s wife had been side-lined by an invitation to view a merchant’s new consignment of silks; when Thierry had been placated with a few moments with his owl, Maheult met them as arranged, leading them to yet another stuffy chamber, this one confined within the ducal palace itself.

Jehane smiled to herself despite her jangled nerves as they were ushered into a tiny bower. The children were staring at their rich surroundings, wide-eyed; the walls were hung with tapestries of knights and their ladies in glowing shades of emerald, crimson and blue, while the rare luxury of stained glass cast multicoloured lozenges on the herb-strewn rushes of the floor. God grant the exotic trappings would hold their interest for the time she needed for what promised to be her most important interview of all!

“Indeed, I well recall her last visit to us,” said the woman with sad brown eyes, crossing herself as the Countess’ name was mentioned to her. This was Teresa, Duchess of Burgundy, herself, gowned in costly blue silk, though her tired, wan face sat oddly with the splendour of her attire. “She was passing through on her way to visit her English estates at the time,” she continued in her musically accented contralto voice, and she turned to a small inlaid table at her side. “See! She has not forgotten any one of us. I have this Venice gazing glass to remember her by, for mine was lost and she knew how I'd treasured it. Others have had books and other keep-sakes... But of course she will have remembered you too, of whom she spoke often, and with such love.”

Jehane ducked her head and took a sip of wine from her heavy gilded cup, feeling her face turn the colour of oat pottage left too long in the crock. ”No,” she whispered eventually, in a voice so unlike her own it frightened her. ”I had nothing. Nothing at all.” And she drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to throw shame and caution to the winds.

_For the children..._

“To be frank, my lady,” she began awkwardly “I had expectations of a small manor adjoining mine, part of the Lady Petronilla her mother’s dower lands...Though indeed the promise was made some years ago,” she concluded lamely as the spots of livid colour bloomed in her cheeks.

The Duchess inclined her head and compressed her lips. “Circumstances change, my dear,” she murmured. “As we all know to our cost.” Her gaze turned inward, growing sadder still and Jehane knew she thought of her own precarious position, born of her failure to conceive. Then the other woman collected herself, adding with a small smile, “But take a moment to think. The very fact that you who were so dear to her have received nothing at all makes me wonder if there has been some mistake.”

“So I had hoped, my lady,” Jehane said, encouraged at last to unburden herself completely to this gracious woman who found so much compassion for another despite her own unenviable plight. “Except that another claimant has come forward. Indeed, I  was informed that he has the title deeds in his possession, and has presented them to the authorities in Avallon, together with a copy of the will.”

The Duchess set her own goblet down and frowned, the rather sallow skin of her brow puckering above her small sharp nose. “And he is known to you, this claimant? Some relative or former retainer of hers, perhaps?”

“Hardly!” Jehane's mouth twisted in scorn. “Nor can I think him the kind to be connected to her in any way. In appearance, he is nothing but a common _routier_ , a coarse hearth knight at best. All else I know is that he is from Middle England and the shire of Nottingham.”

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders, the fine silk of her bliaut rippling like water under a summer sky. “Then I can only say your answer lies there,” she said, with a deep sigh. “If that is so, I fear I can help you no further, my dear. I have no personal connections beyond the Narrow Sea, and my lord the Duke is a busy man and in no mood to listen to women’s talk.”

Unless it was news of an heir on the way, Jehane thought with a tight half-smile. The chill of failure was settling over her like an invisible cloak. “Tomorrow we shall go to the top,” Maheult had whispered to her when they’d laid their plans the previous evening. “The Duke himself is impossible to reach, but my lady loved your countess, and is sure to know what to do.”

Her best hopes had been pinned on the Duchess’ power to intervene, and now those hopes were gone. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said aloud. Her one consolation was that her voice was even and controlled as she added her thanks and made her formal farewells, though her fists were so tight as she clenched them at her sides, her nails gouged half-moons in her palms.

“One moment!”

The Duchess Teresa’s rich contralto halted them at the door. “Do not be downcast, my dear. Middle England is a long way to go indeed, and I know I said I have no way of helping you otherwise. But I do know someone who might.” She turned to Maheult, whose plump open face was as downcast as Jehane’s own must be. “I recall you know _Maistre_ Crespin, Matty dear. Take her to see him tomorrow morning and mention my name.”

“One of the duke’s senior scribes and a clerk of the chancery,” the tirewoman murmured as they bundled out of the bower and the doors swung noiselessly to. "I found a place for his young half-brother with my cousin’s family when he was ejected from his monastery; he owes me the favour, and the Duchess’ interest provides added weight. He’ll deal with us honestly, you may be sure, unlike some of his colleagues here. With luck and the Holy Mother’s aid, he’ll be able to tell us what’s what.”

 Jehane’s spine straightened. With the renewal of hope, she was ready to fight again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to **rosalind25** for her delightful gift.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

It was unseemly for a steward to wear his thoughts on his face. Or so Master Reynault appeared to think.

In this he resembled a certain Thornton back in Locksley and their mutual colleague from the hunting lodge in the Morvan; another taciturn man who had rarely raised an issue on his own initiative. This morning however, the retainer's features were openly grim. Deep grooves scored his brow, and small white patches bracketed a mouth drawn taut and thin.

Gisborne's first sign of trouble that day had been that Reynault was late. A kitchen girl had brought him his breakfast instead, glancing up at him from under her lashes with a knowing smile on her lips - no doubt well-bitten prior to entrance in hopes of turning them an alluring rosy red. This was how it had begun at the lodge as soon as he was recovered enough from his injuries to think of such things; a look and a blush and he’d responded, half from boredom and half to reassure himself that after the past year’s trauma of body and soul, all still functioned as it should.

And so it had. Well enough for a dead man at least.

For a long time now he'd subscribed to the prevailing view of the age, or so he always told himself; that men had needs and women were there to serve them at bed and board and many things in between.Thus he’d felt no compunction in slaking his cravings if the fancy took him and the chance had freely offered itself; until he'd encountered a willful girl who'd made it clear that she would do no man's bidding against her inclination, either outside the bedchamber or inside of it.

 _Marian_ …

But she’d been high-born and pure and above such fleshly things, and this girl was young and clean and willing, with a clear notion of what was involved. Yet the debacle over a kitchen wench named Annie had compounded his damnation in the eyes of the woman he’d wanted for his bride; while the female rivalry, the airs and graces, the sullen looks he’d been forced to endure through much of last winter had reminded him once again of the drawbacks of indulging himself too close to home. No… A well-exercised right arm was less fraught with complications until more satisfactory arrangements could be made. Perhaps Reynault would know...

:”That girl...” he began thoughtfully as the steward approached. “The small blonde one who was in the kitchen today.”

“Messire?”

Gisborne grinned to himself at the wariness implicit in the retainer’s toneless reply. “Put a quiet word in her ear. Tell her I’ve taken a vow of chastity or something.”

Reynault relaxed visibly. “Would that be temporary or permanent, Messire?” he ventured to ask, a hidden spark of humour lighting his gaze, and Gisborne shrugged, concealing the answering curve of his lips behind his hand.

“Undecided. I’ll keep you informed.”

The two men exchanged a complicit look. Then the steward squared his shoulders, the amusement leaching from his eyes. “But I bring unwelcome news, Messire,” he said. “You are summoned to Avallon this afternoon.”

Gisborne’s mood soured. Just when he’d begun to enjoy a little peace for the first time in - he couldn’t quite remember how long! Life at Li Rossinholetz had been proceeding along its smooth and timeless furrow of late; livestock nurtured, crops tended, with nothing for the lord of the manor to do but ride his bounds, enjoying the sunshine and the sight of a well-run concern.

The shrew from Vignoles had not troubled him again; she was still nursing her fit of pique over her pregnant mare, no doubt. Even those two young reprobates had done him the favour of staying well away. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of either of them since that salutary swordplay lesson in the orchard; by the time it was over, the ten year old had been sprawled limply on the grass, groaning and gasping for breath. “Who says so?’ he asked now, from between gritted teeth. “And why?”

Reynault lifted his brows apologetically. “They caught me at my cottage this morning. Early, while I was still abed.”

“And **WHAT** , precisely is _they_ supposed to mean?” Vaisey's one-time enforcer barked, his patience sorely tried by this roundabout way of coming to the point. If trouble was in the offing, what sense did it make to beat about the bush?

“Men from Dijon, on the lord Duke’s authority,” the answer came. “ They were... asking about you, Messire. It appears your claim to Li Rossinholetz is in dispute."

Gisborne rose from his chair, taking shameless advantage of his superior height to pressure the man into a quick and complete disclosure. “And what did you tell them?” he purred, his tone dangerously cool, though inside his gut was cramping, the old familiar acid rush climbing his throat. The twin demons of rage and frustration were chafing at the bit; first the bumptious de Bèze prodding at him, then his termagant of a neighbor, and now had it come at last, as he’d feared all along? The day when his true identity was discovered; the presence of a traitor to the English crown reported in places with an interest in such news.

The steward had stepped back, blinking; then his features settled back into their habitual impassivity. “I told them I had been given no cause to doubt you.”

Gisborne snorted. “Yet!"

Reynault shook his head in denial. “I do not know how and why my lady came to know you, Messire, and I will not ask,” he said. “It is not my place to question her judgment. Nor have I ever known it to be misplaced.”

Gisborne snorted again. “People round here think I’m the devil incarnate. How do you know I didn’t drag her off somewhere and force her... hand?” The last word was a calculated taunt, masquerading as an afterthought.

The other man looked inward, considering what, had he known it, was essentially the truth. He, Gisborne, had man-handled her into her chamber while her guards and her women were held elsewhere, and if all had not gone exactly to plan it was not for want of trying on his part.

Finally the retainer spread his hands. ”I have seen her last testament for myself. My lady was a rich woman. If you were a usurper, you would have helped yourself to a good deal more than one small estate.”

“And you told these men this?’’

Another shake of the head. “They would not give me the chance. But I will go with you to Avallon and say it before them, and to _Maistre le Prévost_ Guiscard too.”

These earnest words drew forth a dark, sardonic smile. “For a steward who knows his duty, you take an awful lot on very little evidence.”

“It is true my lady visited infrequently,” Reynault brushed at his neat brown tunic, immaculate as always despite his rude awakening, “And I was rarely privy to her personal thoughts. But my late wife’s father was her steward for many years and knew her ways well. He always remarked how her stallion would accept no one lightly, and I have seen for myself that he is clearly attached to you.”

“And you find the word of a horse good enough?”

 _For now_...

Reynault did not voice the words but Gisborne suspected they were there to be read in the retainer's level gaze. As for the Duke, further reflection supplied the fact that Eudes of Burgundy was no friend to any part of the Plantagenet faction as far as he knew, which was one thing in his favour. Even so, the only way he was going to find out where he stood was in Avallon today.

 

**The Town of Avallon.**

**l.**

Gisborne strode into the _prévost_ ’s chamber, mentally cursing her high and mighty ladyship of Vézelay for an interfering, manipulative baggage.

If she’d not seen fit to stick her aristocratic nose into his business, he’d have been in his grave by now, immune to these constant disruptions to his life. True, his soul would have been in hell, but at least he’d have made a start on paying for his sins... All the same, he was not ungrateful for the solid presence of Reynault the steward at his shoulder, greeting the assembled company with the affable nod he knew he should have attempted himself rather than create a hostile atmosphere before the proceedings had begun.

 _Maistre_ Guiscard was seated behind the sloping expanses of his desk, flanked by the men from Dijon in their scholarly black robes; they were introduced as _Maistres_ Crespin and Porthault, scribes and clerks to the duke's chancery. “I appreciate your promptness in attending us here,” Guiscard began pleasantly, waving the newcomers to chairs. “But you will appreciate that all must be done according to the law, and these gentlemen here contend that your claim to the manor of Li Rossinholetz is unsound.” He gestured apologetically, implying that it was a matter that could soon be cleared up.

Gisborne clamped his mouth shut, not trusting himself to answer in any way that would advance his cause. Instead he reached into his shirt for the title deeds and his copy of the will. Only by an exercise of the most ruthless self-restraint was he able to lean forward and place the scrolls upon the desk rather than fling them down in front of them.

Then he took a chair and sat, a muscle ticking in his cheek as the visiting officials pored over the documents. They were like a pair of crows picking over a patch of turf for worms; scrutinising each ink blot, every ridge and indentation in the seals; or so it appeared to Gisborne who was left stewing in his own sour juices for what seemed like hours. Eventually the senior of the two sat back, folding narrow hands the colour of old ivory; though his younger colleague persisted in his examination, holding first one parchment, then the other, up to the light, until at last he too sat back, answering his senior’s questioning look with a reluctant inclination of his head.

“Messire... de Gisborne?" Crespin's voice was as dry as the dust from his own archives. “If these documents are indeed genuine, as would appear without application to each and every one of the authorities that issued them, this begs the question of how you came by them." One tufted grey brow was on the rise, but his tone was mild; interrogative rather than accusatory. "For you must grant there is no one here who can confirm your identity."

Gisborne’s hackles rose. He’d had it up to here with justifying himself to all-comers. “They were delivered to me by the Duchess of Aquitaine’s own messenger,” he managed at last. “Go and ask her. I’m sure she’ll bear me out.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared back at his interrogators, daring them to argue with that.

Porthault coughed and looped a lank stand of hair behind an ear as he exchanged an uncomfortable glance with his colleague. Disturbing a dowager queen of two kingdoms in her retirement for a petty legal dispute was unthinkable, as Gisborne was well aware. It was the kind of rash action that could lose them their positions, if not their heads. “Naturally,” the clerk improvised eventually. “But that will take some time…”

“Meanwhile,” Crespin put in smoothly, running a bony finger down the incline of the dark oak desk, “you will understand we are compelled to inquire as to the nature of your connection with the deceased.”

Christ on the cross!

Banked coals ignited in Gisborne's belly. Reynault’s steadying presence was the only thing that deterred him from reaching over the wooden barrier of the desk and seizing the officious old clerk by the throat.

What did they want him to say? That he’d been ordered to seduce her back in Nottingham? Did they want to hear how he’d made her kneel at his feet, begging for his attentions? That he’d bedded her a time or two, making her squeal; though on her own admission she’d been an indifferent whore? Any or all of the above were facets of a truth he had not begun to process, nor was he about to do so; not even for himself, never mind the likes of them.

His fingers itched for the hilt of his sword, but through the flickering crimson haze, he was aware of his steward, shifting in his chair. “With respect, _mes maistres_ ,” the retainer began, clearing his throat. “I hardly think...”

“She passed through the English city of Nottingham when I was master at arms there.” Gisborne dredged up the words from somewhere at last, grinding them out from between his teeth. “She had a horse she was fond of. I pulled it out of a river for her.”

Beside him, Reynault nodded eagerly. “The animal in question is downstairs in the stables at this moment. As steward of Li Rossinholetz, as was my wife's father before me, I can confirm it is indeed my lady’s cherished and capricious mount. It will allow no stranger near, yet its attachment to Messire de Gisborne here is obvious.”

The younger clerk tucked the unruly lock of hair under his cap at last and returned his attention to the scroll in front of him. “In payment of debts incurred...” he quoted thoughtfully, tracing the passage with a horny thumbnail. “This incident with the horse could well be to what the phrase refers. You will vouch for Master Reynault’s good faith of course, Guiscard?” He began to gather up his belongings, clearly bored with the proceedings by now and keen to see an end to it. “Then I think we can take him at his word.”

 _For the present_ , the subtext ran; though the more cautious Crespin demurred, suggesting they should see the beast now, in the name of thoroughness. For would they not be passing through the stables anyway? He too began to rise.

“ **WAIT**!”

The officials flinched as Gisborne came to his feet, leaning over to slap both hands on the desk. “Why was my accuser not here to look me in the eye?” he growled. “Who was it? You owe me that much.”

At this, Guiscard’s gaze grew opaque, and Crespin’s expression was studiously unreadable. The less-experienced Porthault glanced up from a final perusal of the scrolls. “A Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin,” he said, “Of the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon; your neighbour here, I believe.”

And he rolled up the parchments and returned them with a wintry thinning of the lips that did poor duty for a smile.  

**ll.**

The stallion had been duly examined, though from a prudent distance and with much sucking of teeth. Now Ben thundered downhill, rejoicing in the rare opportunity to fly. Powerful muscles bunched and flexed beneath his rider’s thighs as the great horse shook off the equine limbo of too much sedate wandering. He runs, Gisborne had told that persistent little gobbet of pond slime. That's what he does... He found himself envying the simplicity of the horse-mind, all care left behind in the dust from four fleet hooves.

How had it come to this? He’d drifted to this region from idle curiosity and the stultifying dullness of late convalescence, to find what he'd thought of a temporary refuge; a way station, while he decided what do with this second life that had been imposed on him by forces beyond his control. It was true that he’d experienced sporadic flare-ups of possessiveness before; primitive, dog in the manger impulses, triggered whenever someone attempted to take his bolt-hole away from him and dismissed as swiftly as they arose. Sooner or later he would be moving on after all.  Suddenly, and with a strength of feeling that shocked him, he knew he craved this tidy little manor with its fertile fields, its rushing streams and its woodland shade.

He wanted to sleep each night in his own house, comfortable in his own bed; to wake each morning knowing that, with no particular effort of his own, there were retainers and tenants to do his bidding; and all of them more stolidly honest with him than he was able to be himself. He wanted to immerse himself in the unswerving loyalty instilled in them by a fiercely determined woman; a woman tempered by life to Damascus steel, bending yet never breaking, never turning from her purpose when she thought she was in the right. As he knew to his cost.

She had fought for all she held, relentlessly, with tooth and nail and claw and wit, and so would he.

And the Devil take anyone who got in his way.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

**Gisborne**.

  
**“** Open **UP!”**

Gisborne found a perverse kind of satisfaction in the words; they'd disturbed his peace often enough before. The humiliation of explaining his most private business to the clerkly busybodies from Dijon had brought him to simmering point; now as the manor house at Vignoles remained closed to him, he'd come to a rolling boil.

At last the door swung open and he stared, fist suspended in mid-air. One of his young tormenters, the smaller, tow-headed one, stood before him, uncharacteristically neat and clean for once in his life. The homely smell of spice floated from the interior, but it only added to the churning in his gut.

“Ah,” the boy remarked with complete sang-froid, “It’s you.” And he grinned. ;A tooth had fallen out since their last encounter, giving him the look of one of the turnip lanterns they carved for All Soul’s Eve in the English villages; witlessly cheerful and not in the least concerned to be caught skulking about in places he had no right to be. And by a full-grown man with a broadsword at his hip, no less, who was breathing fire down his nose.

The reckless little fool was babbling on as usual when a step on the stair drew Gisborne’s attention away from him; the kitchen wench was tripping down in her undergown, barefoot and hair ablaze.

“Have you no shame, girl, showing yourself like this?” he challenged, the words emerging as a guttural growl

How dare she make so free outside the servants’ quarters, and in stolen finery by the look of it? The chemise was old and yellowed but of finest, thinnest linen, and it clung to her breasts and her rounded hips in the most provocative way. That discreet conversation with Reynault could be put off no longer, he reminded himself distractedly, the fit of his breeches suddenly snugger, which only incensed him the more.

Yet the wench was standing her ground, drawing herself up, her hair a river of fire that flowed about her shoulders as she tossed her head. “Have you come to threaten us in our own home now?” she asked.

For one long, mad moment Gisborne toyed with the idea of showing her what should be done with kitchen girls who refused to know their place. And then he reined himself in. He was already regretting the impulse to come here. The situation called for a clear head and careful planning, and he knew to his cost - so very much to his cost - where blind anger could lead. “A neighbourly warning, that’s all,” he said coldly. “Li Rossinholetz belongs to me, and that’s all there is to it. Tell your lady to back off and I’ll do the same for her.”

He had turned to leave when he heard muffled snorts to his rear. He spun on his heel to see the insolent little ruffian leaning against the wall, stuffing his fingers in his mouth to stop himself from laughing, and failing miserably. The smothered giggles grated like fingernails down a slate. Gisborne lunged for him, intending to cuff him, shake him like a terrier with a rat. But the wench had darted forward, putting her body between them.

“You will leave my son alone!” she said, trembling, but it was with an icy rage.

Over her shoulder, the shameless little runt was laughing openly. “She _is_ the lady,” he managed between hoots, pointing, with tears of mirth running down his cheeks.  

The revelation came as a body blow. No wonder that backcountry burr had faded in and out! This was no peasant brat and neither was his hellspawn brother; they were this manor’s sons and heirs and they had been mocking him, deliberately, all along. While this brazen wench was no kitchen girl but the lady of Vignoles, and she had deceived him too, blatantly bare headed in her ragged chemise or modestly veiled in her plain grey gown. She left two highborn boys to roam the countryside like savages, uncouth, unkempt and ignorant.  What kind of custodian would they make for their lands -if there was anything left of them by the time they came of age? Their heritage was crumbling about their heads because of her wanton neglect.

And to think she’d had the gall to lay claim to his manor as well!

“Who or what you are means nothing to me,” he said, mortified that he'd allowed himself to be taken in so easily by their games. Nevertheless, he bit back the surge of anger to a taut, unpleasant smile, his contempt as much for his own lack of perception as for their deceit. “The warning stands.”

Yet still she showed no inclination to back down; instead she set her son aside and approached him, barefoot and in her undergown, as if she were clothed in the formality of court robes. “I suppose I should thank you,” was her cool reply. “You have saved me the trouble of coming to you and saying the very same thing. Li Rossinholetz is MINE, from the lips and heart of a woman who was more than a sister to me.”

Gisborne’s lip curled. “In short, you have nothing tangible to support your claim. While I have it down on parchment, signed and sealed.”

She shook her head, the wild red locks swirling about her like a court whore’s cloak. “Those documents should have been in my hands long since,” she spat. “But you have contrived to steal them somehow; either that or you have destroyed the originals and yours are clever forgeries.” Her expression was grim, her eyes as cold as stones. “As I hope to prove, and sooner than you think. Though if I have to go barefoot in sackcloth and ashes to the highest authority in the land in order to further my claim, I shall do so. Indeed,” she added, ignoring Gisborne’s pointed glance at her present attire and looking him scathingly up and down in his turn. “There is nothing about you that persuades me that the woman I knew would deign to notice a man like you.”

Gisborne turned aside to mask a sardonic grin. Oh, he could persuade her all right, but he couldn’t guarantee she’d like the answer.

_Then how do I know your ‘more-than-sister’ was marked from knee to groin with a scar that would put the gorges of the Ardèche to shame?_

Yet something, perhaps the ghost of a youth who’d been shamed by the discovery of his mother’s indiscretions, made him balk at saying such a thing in front of an impressionable child.

“Put your own house in order, woman, before you come complaining to me,” he contented himself with saying. “Until then. Leave. Me. Alone.” Three times a long finger stabbed towards her, emphasising the last words. “Or you will regret it, I’m warning you. You can have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

He shouldered his way from the house, furious at her for her interfering, furious at her for the lax discipline that would endanger her children’s future; and furious with himself for allowing them all to make a fool of him. How could he have been taken in by a witless country bumpkin act of no more skill or sophistication than a mummer’s play? And how had he failed to recognise the grey-green eyes and the defiant air of the kitchen wench when the lady Jehane had come to call?

His mount was waiting patiently for him outside, chewing thoughtfully on the clump of grass that fringed the foot of a leaning gatepost; lush green despite the early summer heat. The way the day was going, it was a wonder the beast had not sprouted wings and flown away.

 _Kamar al Akmar_...

He exhaled forcefully as his wayward mind threw up the fable of the ebony horse. But Ben was nudging playfully at him, prospecting for apples yet willing as always to settle for a pat and a friendly word. Gisborne threw himself astride the strong back and rode away, fighting the impulse to tighten his fists on the luxuriant mane. None of this was the stallion’s fault; besides, he needed to find his calm if he was to make a useful assessment of the situation as he saw it now.

At present, things did not bode well for the quiet life he craved.

 

 **Jehane**.

So he had gone at last.

Jehane slumped on the stool beside the hearth, the ties of her knees undone. Earlier, notice had come that the eagerly-awaited visitors from Dijon would be with her within the hour, but how long ago was that?  She’d hurried upstairs immediately to change from her workaday attire and lace herself into something befitting the lady of Vignoles. Donning a clean chemise, she'd paused to sit on the bed and drag a comb through her hair, staring unseeingly into space as she revisited her interview with Master Reynault in his vineyard some weeks ago. His casual acceptance of the intruder had troubled her, and still did. If Lys’ own steward had come so easily under his sway, the outlook was dim indeed. She must hope he had spoken from too many hours under the sun, or, more sinisterly, from fear.

Yes, that was it! Reynault was biding his time, watching and waiting until he found the means to set things to rights. Looking at it rationally, there was little more a man of his status could do. Even so, cool rationality came hard when the whole of your future was at stake.

She was reaching for her gown from the clothing pole when she'd heard the insistent beat of hooves. _Maistre_ Crespin and his colleague must be here to report on their findings! Her heart had leapt as she dared to hope that the nightmare was nearing its end; the grievous mistake had been found and would be rectified forthwith.

Instead, a raging storm had borne down on the manor to batter at her door. Her throat had closed with dread as she heard the latch being lifted, and Thierry piping up in response to that visceral rumble of a voice. The boy still had no more sense of self-preservation than a lackwit who stuck an arm in a lion’s cage, and she'd despaired of teaching him otherwise. There’d been no time for decency or decorum; she ran down the stairs as she was, in her undergown, her mother’s instinct urging her to position herself between danger and her child.

Jehane shivered at the memory: his mouth had been thin and cruel, his eyes iced blue flame above that hawkish nose. She’d dismissed him as a chancer, a feckless wanderer; the kind to lose interest at the first sign of opposition and move on to easier pickings, and she cursed herself for her stupidity. That commanding air should have taught her better; that coiled physicality, that surrounding shroud of darkness that chilled the blood.

There was a crash from the kitchen, snapping her out of her reverie. Was he here again? Cold fear knifed through her as she whirled towards the sound, ready to jump to her feet and do battle once again. Then she subsided onto her stool as Aubrey’s stained face appeared round the door. She noted the grubby tunic and scuffed boots, the long unruly thatch of sandy hair with something like despair. “What have you broken in there, child? I hope you’ve not been touching something you shouldn’t. And where have you been?”

Inevitably, the reply was cryptic, and muffled with cake crumbs. “Out. Who was that, banging about in here just now?”

“It was the Knight! Who else?” Thierry put in excitedly. “And he was mad. Someone must have shot an arrow up his ar…”

“Again?” His sibling cut off the forbidden word before it was finished, projecting a world-weariness rare in a ten-year old, while saving him from certain death at his mother’s hands.

Yet the incipient profanity had gone clean over Jehane’s head. She was realising with a dawning cold horror that her offspring seemed better acquainted with her recent visitor and his doings than they should have been. She glanced up sharply, to catch them exchanging meaningful looks before edging towards the kitchen door and the lure of those mysterious pursuits that filled so much of their time of late.

_Put your own house in order..._

The intruder’s accusations rang in her ears, and there were unwelcome truths behind them that brought her off her stool and across the room to bar their way, despite the lingering weakness in her knees. “Have you been talking to that man since the day he brought Blancheflor home with you?”

Aubrey’s bony shoulders lifted. “We saw him around now and then.”

Which being translated meant they were hardly ever out of his company! Worse still, the admiration in their tone had been unmistakable; Jehane could only guess at the damage that had already been done. You black bastard, she fumed. Not content with seizing my manor, you’ve been subverting my children behind my back! “I don’t want either of you anywhere near him again,” she said aloud. “Not around the countryside, and especially not at Li Rossinholetz. Stay away from him, do you understand?”

Thierry began to wail, his mouth rebellious and square. “But Maman! How can I learn to be a knight if you won’t let me talk to one?”

“I doubt he’s the kind of knight anyone should wish to be,” his mother said firmly. “Mind what I say now, or I shall lock the pair of you in your bedchamber this time with the shutters nailed shut, and you’ll only be let out when Father Joscelin comes.”

Incongruously, the boy brightened. “On bread and water?” he asked hopefully, and Jehane sighed for her small son and his unrealistic view of life. It was not one long adventure of knights errant on glorious quests, with the odd brief encounter with dungeons and dragons to add spice to the heady brew. She’d have hoped Aubrey was possessed of more sense than to be taken in by the glamour of tales and songs, but this seemed not to be the case. It only went to show how much she needed Li Rossinholetz and the revenues that would come with it; without the money to provide for them as their station demanded, her children were running wild all right and they would never enjoy the place in life they deserved.

Which reminded her that _Maistre_ Crespin and his colleague must be due any moment now. In Dijon, the elderly clerk had been kindness itself, promising to do his utmost to expedite the affairs of a friend of the lady Maheult. Ushering her errant progeny before her, Jehane mounted the stairs, hopmg to impose some semblance of order on herself and her family before they arrived.

Let it be with good news, she thought with a fleeting supplication to the dark lady of Dijon, who had heard her prayers thus far.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Stubborn, wilful woman! Conniving, misbegotten brats! They'd been fooling him from the outset, the lot of them, laughing at him behind his back.

Gisborne sat on over his wine, smarting, long after his hapless steward had given up on him and headed off to his cottage and bed. If the interrogation by the bags of wind from Dijon had incensed him, this new encounter with the harpy of Vignoles and her sly little runt had all but sent him over the edge.

His foul mood had outlasted the short gallop home, a supper that mostly ended up on the walls and floor, and the considerable time spent shouting the odds at the long-suffering Reynault.

“She thinks of her children, Messire,” the retainer had said, in a futile attempt to placate his lord.

Then she should have found herself a husband to look after her! She was no catch for a suitor of her class but she was not unpersonable - provided she could be persuaded to mind her woman's business and curb her tongue. Some well-off merchant seeking the gloss of a title to improve his social standing would have snatched at the leg up.

_And the leg-over..._

Vaisey’s ghost spoke up hollowly from the bottom of the wine flagon, taunting him for the first time in weeks. And at once he was back in the castle bailey on that spring morning over a year ago as her ladyship of Vézelay prepared to take her leave; smelling the cedar and Grenada apple of her pomade and realising that he’d bared his soul to her in his sleep. The recollection cast darker shadows on an already black mood. The first jug wrestled well and truly into submission, he stomped off to the buttery for more - and then more.

 _Bèl amics, avinens e bos,_ quoted a quieter voice as he threw himself onto the settle and drained another cup; the dregs a syrupy residue on his stubbled chin that trickled down to stain his shirt. Gentle and fine, my arse! Those words had been laced with sarcasm at the time, he'd been aware of that; a stinging rebuke for his expressed opinion of the female sex, couched in a compliment from a favoured _canso_.

“Oh, I like them well enough,” he snarled aloud. “In their place. Or have you forgotten that already?”

His punishment was immediate and almost painful, as his body remembered something else his mind had been determined to forget; the dark pleasures he'd had from her, making her kneel,  taking her without care or refinement in the great travel bed. He would have that overdue conversation with Reynault first thing in the morning, he told himself, shaken by his reaction as the long-suppressed memories surfaced in full force. Some attractive young woman with enough about her to make the transaction pleasant would do; one that knew how to keep her mouth shut and make no demands on him.

Someone who lived far enough from Li Rossinholetz not to trail about after him, wanting what he was unwilling - or unable - to give.

Meanwhile as he'd told himself before, there was always his good right hand.

Yet by the time he’d dragged himself up the stairs to his narrow nun’s bed, the impulse had left him. Soon he was dead to the world, oblivious of the ghosts that queued up to visit his dreams, and deaf to the nightingale’s song.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane was bundling her braids into their net when the measured beat of hooves announced the arrival of the visitors from Dijon.

She retrieved a freshly-laundered veil from her coffer, then conducted a swift last-minute inspection of the children - not entirely as she would have wished, but passable if they made an unscheduled appearance as they so often contrived to do. They were bad enough when their attendance was required, she reflected, shuddering at the memory of Thierry squirming on his stool with his best blue tunic stained with strawberry juice.

Berthe must have returned from whatever hiding place she’d sought when the _routier_ rode in; she was answering the door to the newcomers’ purposeful rap. With a final admonition to the children to stay in their room, Jehane hastened down the stairs, securing the well-worn linen about her head with a few last pins and huffing at the splintered treads that caught at her slippers in her haste. She'd been meaning to get someone in from the village to smooth them down with his adze, but never found the time.

“Welcome, _mes maistres_ ,” she said with a composure she was far from feeling. “Berthe, will you make sure Ham has seen to their horses?”

She waved her guests to their seats, pouring wine from her rapidly diminishing stocks and offering the still-warm _pain d’épices,_ fragrant with the last of the nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves _;_ another receipt she had gleaned in the kitchens of Ghent and baked in anticipation of the visit. Mercifully, the delicacy had remained largely intact after Aubrey’s depredations, she saw.

“Most kind...”

 _Maistre_ Crespin seemed ill at ease as he crumbled the new cake between his fingers and took a token sip from his cup.This was not a good sign, though perhaps her nervous anticipation was causing her to over-think. “The kindness is yours, _Maistre_ Crespin, for coming all this way, and so promptly. Berthe will have killed a chicken for later, and I hope you will make your beds with us tonight rather than seek an inn.”

But he was shaking his head, loose grey curls bobbing under his black clerk's cap. “I fear you will think we have done little to deserve your hospitality,” he said with a gusty sigh as he brushed the gingerbread crumbs from his lap.

A long silence ensued, during which the settling of weary roof timbers added to the suspense. “My lady Jehane,’ he began again at length. “I believe I cautioned you back in Dijon that what we hold in the Duke’s archives is more often than not a summary of the originals; of little more use to you than what you found in the good _Maistre_ Guiscard’s rolls. And so it has proved.  In the case of the will, for example, only the major beneficiaries are recorded in full, all else falling under the heading of sundry other bequests.”

“You will accept, moreover,” his younger companion interjected, ”that we are familiar with the royal and ducal seals; while that of the late abbess of Fontevrault, may God assoil her, is also known to us from other chancery business, as is the distinctive oval of the Duchess of Aquitaine. ” He was gripping the edges of his gown, his pale eyes wide in his zeal to demonstrate his resourcefulness. “We took the precaution of bringing samples with us for comparison.”

“My colleague, _Maistre_ Porthault,” his senior introduced belatedly, flustered by this inadvertent lapse of courtesy. He spread his hands. “I have to tell you that our careful examination of your rival claimant’s documents today compelled us to conclude that all seals are genuine.”

“Nor, as far as is humanly possible, could we find signs of tampering,” Porthault chimed in, “The genuine article for example, prised from a legitimate source, and affixed to a fraudulent deed."

He set his empty goblet on the table, raising a brow in expectation of a refill, and Jehane fumed at this presumption from a man she judged to be some years her junior. Nevertheless, she schooled her features and poured, stiffening her spine against the spreading chill that was invading her heart.

“I also have to tell you that the parchment was virgin in every case," Crespin said. "The copy was clean; with no trace of former use or alteration to the text; either of which might indicate a forgery of some kind. Nor did the wording contradict our own summary in any respect; only a direct appeal to each issuant would tell us more. My lady Jehane." the clerk concluded gently, "I fear we have no choice but to accept that the manor you claim was indeed bequeathed to a Guy of Gisborne, late of the English shire of Nottingham. And as far as we are able to say at this juncture, this is the man who came before us this afternoon.”

Jehane's throat grew dry. “How do you know? Who is here to vouch for him!" she managed at last. "And supposing you are right and he is who he says he is, he is also a foreigner with no allegiance to the region; while my claim bears the weight of years. Surely his grace the Duke…”

The elderly clerk sighed heavily. “I fear the Duke is not hearing any litigation at present. He has other matters on his mind.”

The matter of getting himself an heir, Jehane thought bitterly, recalling the Duchess Teresa’s shadowed brown eyes. “Then we must petition the king...”

 _Maistre_ Porthault gave a narrow-lipped smile. “Paris is another world," he said, shaking his head at such provincial naïveté. “You can have no idea…” He smiled his faintly condescendingw smile again as he went on. “An oral bequest such as you allege was all very well in the old days, my lady. But the times are uncertain and needful of stricter law.”

His colleague silenced him with a glance and a telling gesture. “A personal application to the Parlement of Paris would certainly be possible, my lady Jehane... in theory. But it is a long way to go, with no guarantee of being heard. These are troubled times indeed, and the king is much occupied with his skirmishings with Richard of England and his men.”

Jehane set her jaw. “All the same, I have to try. I will go there myself, wait as long as it takes...”

In his concern, _Maistre_ Crespin forgot himself so far as to lean forward, patting her on the arm with a veined hand. A faint aroma of moth-repellent herbs, cedar and peppermint, emanated from his robes, catching in her throat.

“As I see it, my lady, you are not without options, limited though they are.” he said. “One might be a claim of stolen identity; which would leave you little better off, for the manor would fall to the true Guy of Gisborne, who and wherever he may be.” Here he pursed his lips and sat back, examining his hands; the man of law carefully weighing his words. “A surer route would have been on grounds of unauthorised alienation of feudal property on the Countess Alix’ part. As you may be aware, no such transfer of holdings can be made without due authorisation from its ultimate overlord, who is our own duke of course. In such a case, Li Rossinholetz would devolve to Duke Eudes himself, who might then be prepared to hand over the fief in return for knightly services or other suitable fee.”

At this, Jehane’s mind raced ahead, the thoughts jostling for precedence like rats in a wine barrel. As things stood, she could barely pay her present dues; a single lot of knight’s duty had stretched their resources, even before Robert had wandered off and got himself killed.

This was a callous way to remember the vibrant third son of a noble family from Beaune, she reflected with a pang of guilt. Once a hearth-knight in the Count of Flanders’ _meinie_ , he’d courted her with clumsy enthusiasm despite her even lowlier place in the world; if not, perhaps, without an eye to the tidy dowry supplied by his lord for his chief clerk’s daughter and only child, and which he'd earmarked for the purchase of his own estate.

Yet like so many younger sons, Robert de Saint Aubin had proved feckless in his ways. The remainder of the dowry was soon gone, while his interest was quick to wane in whatever venture he undertook, whether the founding of a new dynasty on his own modest manor or the establishment of a vineyard stocked from his ancestral lands. His sole lasting passion had been for the precarious world of the tourney; a world made for men without roots and family ties who thrived on the scent of danger. Once he’d tasted its tawdry glamour, he was rarely at home.

Jehane's heart died a little more inside her as she recalled how she had ached with missing him at first; the cheerful banter, the warm, strong body in her bed that could bring her so much joy. Slowly and sadly she’d learned that she managed better without the disruption his visits trailed in their wake, while the reminders that she was a woman and still young grew fewer and further between. It had felt wrong somehow that it made little difference to her life when he died; nevertheless it was the truth.

Now his neglected vines had flourished under her care, looking set to fill their promise at last. With the revenues from Li Rossinholetz to add to her coffers, future fees or knightly dues should present no problem for her.

“Unfortunately, my lady Jehane...” Maistre Crespin’s voice was almost avuncular as it broke into her thoughts, dashing her burgeoning hopes. “An objection on grounds of unauthorised alienation falls down too. You may know that the Lady Alix had the manor from the Countess of Vermandois, her mother, of whose dower lands it formed a part. Closer examination of the archives turns up the fact that the holding is listed as allodial land; that is, held free in perpetuity, without feudal obligation, and therefore not within the purview of the Duke. Oh, do not look so downcast, my dear” he added swiftly, as Jehane reproached herself for displaying her feelings on her face for anyone to read. “This does not exhaust your options. I merely wished to set the course of our reasoning before you so you know exactly where you stand. I could do nothing less for a connection of the Lady Maheult.”

“There is always trial by combat,” Porthault supplied, his features animated. “It’s infrequently done these days, but still a valid procedure.” The prospect seemed to excite him; not so much for its primitive violence perhaps, as for the chance of witnessing something of such rarity value.

“Though the odds of locating a champion you could be sure of may be unfavourable,” his senior demurred. He paused to lift a tufted brow, offering an opening for Jehane to contest the point. “A risky course of action,” he acknowledged, seeing she was not disposed to contradict him here. “As I think we are all agreed? And there are other ways.”

Jehane sat with her hands clasped loosely in her lap and fought the urge to beat at this genial old man with her fists, yelling at him to drop his pedant’s caution and throw her a bone to keep her hopes alive. Her battle of words with the _routier_ , the shock of discovering that her own children had been consorting with the enemy had well nigh exhausted her resources of self-control.

_We saw him around now and then..._

“We could send to England; make discreet enquiries about this Guy of Gisborne from Nottingham,” _Maistre_ Porthault put in. “See if there are any prepared to vouch for or against his identity. Difficult, but have our contacts over there and with time and I fear, some expense, it could be done.”

Yet time and money she did not have. As the days went by, her adversary would grow entrenched in his stolen lands, while she slid further into poverty and despair.

“Or you could go straight to the heart of the matter,” Crespin bestowed a singularly sweet smile on her. “Beg audience of the one person alive who will know the whole truth of the matter. Go to the royal abbey of Fontevrault, and the Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen.**

******The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**** **

******l.****  **

Dawn came, with its unavoidable reminder that like a snapped bowstring, over-indulgence comes back to smack you in the face.

 “I’m going for a ride,” Gisborne grumbled, waving the food away when the Reynault appeared with his morning meal.

The steward took one look at his ravaged features and retrieved the tray.  “I shall wrap this up,” he announced. “And ride with you.”

Unwelcome though the company was at first, the hours began to pass in a comfortable silence, the sun warm on their backs as the summer began its slow run down towards the feast of St John. High noon found them seeking the shade of a spinney, with Gisborne enough himself at last to attempt a little bread and watered wine. As for the matter of female company that had seemed so pressing the night before, well, that could wait for now.

 “The grapes are doing exceptionally well this year after the inundations of last autumn.” The retainer had followed the direction of his master’s gaze to the orderly green-gold ranks that marched across the hillside below.

Gisborne plucked a blade of grass, relaxing into the moment to recline on an elbow and chew the tender shoot. “How much do we produce?”

“Enough for our own needs, Messire, that is all. But with the Lady so rarely visiting, we had accumulated something of a surplus...” The steward’s square-cut face remained innocently impassive as the gentle jibe drew a grimace from his new lord. “We have nowhere near the acreage nor the commercial potential of a Vignoles-sous-Avallon, of course. Their vineyards are not long established, but their vines are of the finest _pinot noir_ stock from Beaune, and promise great things... Provided the Lady Jehane can bring them to full production, that is.”

“The Lady Jehane wastes too much time putting spokes in other wheels,” Gisborne retorted darkly, reliving the disruptions of the previous day. But the stallion’s appetite had grown jaded with horse-food by then and wandered over to see what human delicacies he could scrounge. “Though I suppose you put one in hers,” he told the horse, fondling the silken muzzle. “Humping her precious mare.” 

“With a fine foal to come from it, however,” Reynault remarked, watching horse and master with a thoughtful air. “Unless you truly intend to claim ownership in lieu of stud fees?” The pause was eloquent; but with nothing but stony silence for answer, the retainer shrugged and changed tack. “Did I mention requests for Ebène’s services are passed on to me when I visit the town?”

Gisborne conceded that the retainer might have done; he’d not been in much of a listening mood of late. He plucked another blade of grass, idly pondering the whereabouts of the brood-mare from the stud at Ripon; the one he’d once been offered _for the pleasure of his company_. He snorted softly, remembering the expression on the Sheriff’s face upon reading that particular gem.

The beast would have been a prime asset for a place like this; not that he’d had a snowball’s chance in hell of claiming the animal, the way things had worked out. And what of his alternative choices; the destrier, or the grey courser, Blancart, that might or might not have appeared out of nowhere in a Sherwood glade in time for the mercy dash to York? Where was that newly-discovered half-brother now, he wondered; the one he shared with Hood? Dead or on the run no doubt, along with what was left of the gang.

Meanwhile the sun was warm, bringing a welcome somnolence with it. Gisborne dozed and entertained himself with nebulous thoughts of possible futures, called up by the steward’s words.  Li Rossinholetz had prospered as an adjunct to wider _demesnes,_ but other sources of revenue would be needed if the manor was to stand by itself. The marketing of Ben's services might form the start of something more ambitious,  while the prospective water mill would bring an income too. For he was constantly aware that he was here on sufferance; any undue increase in rents and taxes would lose him the goodwill he'd enjoyed thus far - and perhaps the manor too. He was a man alone and a pile of parchment was no defence against the axes and mattocks of an angry peasant mob. 

These musings were a useful distraction from the frustrations of the day before. By evening he’d banished all thought of shrewish women and duplicitous brats from his mind, and when he retired for the night, the nightingale in the tree outside his window sang him to a dreamless sleep.

  
**ll.**

Time passed.

Little by little the insubstantial visions from a lazy summer afternoon took on solid form as he allowed himself to plan for a future at Li Rossinholetz at last. Digging had begun on an exploratory channel down by the river and word had gone out that the lord of Li Rossinholetz was not averse to offering his pureblood Saracen stallion at stud.

Contrary to his gloomier expectations, there'd been no further contact from Dijon’s chancery drones, either in person or by couriered writ. As for the lady of Vignoles, it seemed she had conceded defeat; he’d heard nothing from her since their altercation in her shambles of a main hall.There’d been no sign of her feral children either, lying little toads that they were. The savagery of the swordplay lesson had proved as effective a deterrent for high born boys as for the peasant’s get they had pretended to be.  

Though this did not stop him from cursing himself each time he thought of them. He should have guessed no rough villager child would dare to act with such bare-faced cheek; the same nonchalance, the same brash self-confidence as the boy he’d known long ago in Locksley, whose feckless attitude to life had brought grave loss to them both.

_My home and my parents, Robin Hood…  And Marian, who was always yours._

Great wrongs were done on either side; though the burden of guilt would always lie more heavily on himself. It was no thoughtless child that had destroyed the woman they’d loved; he, Gisborne, had done that, with his own hands and in his full awareness as a man. And yet, when they’d both lost everything, they’d found a kind of reconciliation at the end...

Inevitably this time of tranquillity was not to last. He returned from relieving himself in a bramble thicket one afternoon to hear high-pitched voices and a bubble of excited laughter he recognised all too well. He stepped out into the open, about to rain down fire on the perpetrators and perhaps a little brimstone too; instead, he found himself surveying the scene with slow-dawning cold horror welling up in him.

As son and heir of the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon, the ten-year-old should have known better; but no, he'd strolled boldly up to the stallion and was standing in range of those murderous hooves and teeth with a hand held out. The little fool! Despite his poor opinion of the boy and his common sense, the vision of a small mangled corpse was not a pleasant one. Hardly daring to breathe, much less call out in warning, he inched forward on silent feet...

And with a frantic grab from behind and a spin aside, he had him tight and safe, though the perverse little numbskull squirmed in his grasp like a freshly-landed trout. Meanwhile his brother had fled the grassy knoll on which he’d perched to watch the proceedings, and Ben was harrumping his displeasure at being robbed of his prey.

“You brainless little turd,” Gisborne growled, fighting his floundering catch and thinking himself more than justified in refusing to moderate his language for what he now knew were tender ears. “Did you want to get yourself killed?”

“We brought him some _pain d’épices_ ,” the boy said indignantly, wriggling free. “We’ve been saving it for him.” He opened a grubby fist to reveal the treat, now compressed to an unappetising lump the colour and consistency of the clay loam that underlaid the domain. A stale whiff of cinnamon and cloves arose, and a boyhood memory stirred in the grown man’s mind - gingerbread hearts, ribboned in scarlet and sold as love-tokens at the Nottingham fairs; fairings he’d coveted but never tasted either as greedy child or yearning adult.

“I was only being friendly,” his erstwhile captive was saying; he sniffed, then wiped his nose on a sleeve. “Blancheflor loves _pain d’épices._ This is a bit old and mouldy, I suppose, but we’ve not been able to come before.”

“Ébène is not other horses,” Gisborne snapped. “When he doesn’t know you, he bites and kicks.” To his chagrin, the contrary beast proceeded to give him the lie, choosing to play the lamb instead of the devil-horse; he'd sneaked up behind the indignant child and bent his great head down to lip delicately at the small hand. Man and boy looked on as the stallion stepped back, savouring the last crumbs of the treat before wandering off to crop at the grass.

Gisborne planted one booted foot forward, folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Didn't your mother tell you to stay away from me?”

“Oh, she did,” was the ingenuous reply. “But she didn’t say anything about your horse.” The grey-green eyes were earnest in the dust-streaked face. “It’s not our fault if you came back from the bushes so soon. Besides, how are we to learn to be knights if we don’t watch how it’s done? It’s not as if there’s a lot of choice round here.”

Gisborne glanced up to the heavens. God help any poor soul who took Vaisey's feared lieutenant as a model of chivalric grace. “Knights don’t lie and cheat,” he taunted, wincing inwardly at his own hypocrisy. “Nor do they pretend to be someone they’re not.”

The lad shrugged unrepentantly. “You never asked, so we didn’t tell. All right, all right!” He held his hands up hastily and skipped back as Gisborne took a threatening step towards him. “It’s just that sometimes it’s good to escape; you know, lessons, and best clothes and...” He took several mincing paces and pantomimed a mannerly bow. “Sometimes it’s fun too,” he confessed in an ill-conceived burst of candour, before his gaze fell under Gisborne’s hard stare. “But it was rude to let you go on thinking we were village boys. I didn’t think.”

Gisborne exhaled. He would never forgive these slippery little reprobates for pulling the wool over his eyes; nor himself, for that matter, for being so blind as to allow them to do so. But it would hardly advance his reputation in the area if he were to lay hands on them the way his palms were itching to do. “That young squirt of a brother of yours has already learned an important soldiering lesson,” he said gruffly, with a gesture in the direction of the other boy’s flight. “There are times when discretion is the better part of valour. You should try it yourself.”

 “Like I said... Thierry’s an idiot,” the lad confided, missing the hint entirely. “An even bigger one than me.” He flashed an engaging grin. “I am sorry. About the horse, I mean. And everything else.” Then the sunny expression gave way to a frown. “But I really needed to learn how to handle a sword, and that’s all spoiled now.”

Spoiled? So he’d thrown all the punishment he could at him and still the child was asking for more!  Was it courage or sheer bloody-mindedness that drove him, Gisborne wondered, lost for words and deciding eventually that it must be some demonic combination of the two.

The child in question chewed at his lip and sank to the ground, hugging his scrawny knees. “Besides,” he mumbled, pulling his sling-shot from his belt and slashing at a springy clump of grass. “There was something I needed to ask.” He ducked his head to examine his dusty boots, the over-long sandy curls falling in his face. “Man to man, sort of thing… When the time was right, you know… Now Maman says we’re going away, and I’ll never get the chance.”

Going away? 

Gisborne’s heart gave a sudden pulse of triumph. Were his problems about to vanish of their own accord? The lady Jehane and her offspring had gone away before, he reminded himself, yet here they were again. All the same, it promised respite of a kind; a chance to consolidate, to enjoy some of the peace and quiet he craved. He’d find out the details from Reynault and prepare himself accordingly. “Go on, then, brat,” he said with the sigh of the long-suffering, finding himself magnanimous in victory. “Spit it out.”

The boy slashed viciously at the grass again. ”Your stallion,” he muttered eventually, his cheeks colouring, and still not lifting his head. “He’s very big.”

“A good sixteen hands,” Gisborne agreed, mystified... until a grubby paw gestured towards a puny crotch.  So that was it. Such moments of self-doubt came to them all at one stage or another. “Like I said. He’s a horse. Of course he’s big, like the rest of him.” He suppressed a grin. “Yours still has a way to go, you know, before you become a man.”

The lad looked up wide-eyed as he absorbed this information, but it didn’t seem to bring him much relief. He shook his head, his narrow throat bobbing. “I was thinking about Blancheflor too. Does it hurt them, do you think, when they stick it in?”

Give me strength, Gisborne implored, glancing up at the wide blue vault of the sky and rolling his eyes. The sensitive type! God help him on a battlefield when his mount was ham-strung and screaming. He shrugged his shoulders, the skin creasing between his brows as he racked his brains for an explanation the boy would understand. “She didn’t look too unhappy to me,” he said at length, praying the child was picturing the mare’s enthusiasm as the stallion slammed into her.

Clearly he wasn’t, for his face was still the colour of stale curds, his lips compressed till they were almost blue. “What about people?” he choked out at last, through a mouth distorted in a rictus of distaste. “I hear the men talk in the fields, so I know people do it too.”

So that was what was eating at him! But that’s what you got for skulking round corners, flapping your ears, Gisborne thought, recalling a few home truths his younger self could have done without. Yet the boy’s distress was tangible, reaching a part of him he’d thought long dead; the part that had raged and mourned in turn for a man who’d valued God and glory over home and family, and left an only son fatherless, as this child was, and from a younger age. Reynault had confirmed it all not long ago, the mention of boars standing out starkly in retrospect.

All the same, he was still stumped for an answer, the one this restless young mind needed to hear. “Do you ever touch yourself?” he began at last, “Apart from when you piss, that is? Good lad!’ he went on when met with a shocked stare. “The Church tells us it’s a sin. But suppose you’d done so by accident, you’d know it feels pretty nice.”

Christ on the cross, he chafed. What now? For the small features still retained their pinched expression. The sensitive type, he reminded himself. “Women don’t mind,” he said at last. “If you take care with it,” he added with a feeling akin to desperation, remembering the willing women he'd known. And a wife would want children, wouldn't she? "No,” he growled, crossing his arms forbiddingly as the brittle celadon gaze bored into him, demanding further enlightenment. “That’s all you need to know for now. Come back in a few years’ time for the rest.”

And the child was going away, he remembered, making it a distinct possibility that this time of reckoning might never come. He directed a prayer of gratitude at the heavens, reflecting that this had to have been one of the most bizarre conversations he’d ever had.

 “One last lesson with the swords, runt?” The words were out before he knew it, leaving him wondering at himself again. Generous impulses were hardly his style. Still, given the heady prospect of imminent deliverance, he supposed the aberration could be excused. “You’ve disobeyed your mother already; you might as well be hanged for a sheep as a goat.”

 Gisborne watched, unbuckling his sword belt and still puzzling at himself as the boy sprang to his feet and brushed the sandy tangles from his eyes. The haunted expression was already changing to eager joy as he scurried off to search the undergrowth for a suitable pair of sticks.

 

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

The fat borrowed gelding ambled placidly along the track.

The stolid pace had been tolerable as they passed through a sun-lit terrain of meadows and softly rounded hills, where small villages drowsed under the blue summer sky. Now their route lay through the forest of Bertranges, and it was gloomy; the mighty oaks formed a dark cathedral, their branches a hammer-beam roof stretching high above their heads.

Jehane shivered and dug her heels into the horse's plump flanks, wishing she’d not stowed her mantle in her coffers earlier on; vanity in part, as it looked so worn among the magnificence of the other ladies in their train. How she longed for Blancheflor; her neat, spirited gait would have brought her out into the sunlight in no time at all.

Yet she must not complain. The Duchess Teresa's pilgrimage to Compostela had been organised as a comfort to her soul... and a convenient way of removing a repudiated wife from the Dijon public eye. To Jehane it had come as a godsend, the answer to her prayers.

It was reasonable to assume Eleanor of Aquitaine could provide the information she craved. Sober reflection argued that a journey down to the borders of Anjou and Poitou was as insurmountable an obstacle for her as a visit to Paris and the king's Parlement. And then the lady Maheult had arranged for her to travel with the Duchess' retinue for much of the way.

The tirewoman had  insisted on supplying her with a mount as well, for they were to proceed by road only so far as the nearest embarkation point on the River Loire. The horses would be left behind with the wains, and this Jehane could not have countenanced, even if her mare had been in the most robust state of health. No, Blancheflor was better off in her stable at home, cosseted by Ernoul and the rest.

That the same could not be said of the children was unfortunate but unavoidable. She'd deemed it unwise for the trip to Dijon; for this long and arduous journey it had been unthinkable, even if she'd never learned of their unsettling familiarity with the _routier_ and his affairs. Perhaps it had been shortsighted to hope for whoops of joy at the prospect of this new adventure, though there would be more to interest them along the way than a dusty road and the stifling confines of city life. As it was, her plans had been met with a stony silence that did not bode well at all.

Once on the road however, Thierry had cheered up considerably. He was galloping up to her now on one of the spare sumpter ponies, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright with delight. Aubrey In worrying contrast slumped on the tail of a baggage wagon, pale-faced, with the distant stare of a mind that wandered in other realms than this moment and this place.

“Is something troubling you, child?” Jehane whispered, urging the sluggish gelding closer when Thierry had pricked off to the head of the train. But an evasive shake of the head and compressed lips were all the answer she got.

Ten was an awkward age; not yet on the cusp of adulthood, but mature enough to notice the ways of the world, if not to understand them well. Too old for the untrammelled confidence of infancy, but too young to bear the burden of picking up on a mother’s worries, Jehane reflected on a helpless tide of tenderness and guilt.

It was to her great relief and with a prayer of gratitude to the Dark Lady of Dijon that they emerged from the trees at last, and the ochre and umber towers of the priory of La Charité sur Loire came into view, in whose guesthouse they were to lie that night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen.**

**The Vézelay Road.**

Mélis was not her real name **.**

She was dark and slight with a little triangular face; the face of a cat that had got the cream. That was only when they were alone together - or so he was expected to believe. Out in the world she exuded respectability; but a respectability with secrets, as you would gather from the richness of her fine woollen gowns, her fur-trimmed mantles and the exquisitely soft red leather of her shoes.

It was at this inn, the _Escusson de Bourgogne_ on the Vézelay road, that their paths had first crossed. He’d been on his way home from a fitting for a new set of clothes in that town where neither he nor his business was known; her presence was something she’d never seen the need to explain.

They'd met several times since then at her home in a quiet back street of the nearby township of Domécy;  to their mutual pleasure, for after their first encounters, she’d laughingly declined a fee, rolling onto her belly with her ankles crossed high in the air and telling him he gave what money couldn’t buy.

Gisborne had buried a cynical smile in the pillows at that, knowing she said the same to all of the men. Back in his narrow nun’s bed that night, he’d castigated himself for the fraction of a moment he’d allowed himself to be flattered. Yet it was enough that she took him apart and put him together again so skilfully that afterwards he felt weightless as a cloud. And if there was a small cold hollow at his core at times, he dismissed it as a touch of indigestion at most.

The Escutcheon of Burgundy was several cuts above the usual sort of drinking den that dotted the local countryside. It boasted reeds rather than sand on the floor, and these always fresh and herb-strewn; the furnishings were comfortable and the pewter-ware as clean and winking as the serving girls. Naturally all this was reflected in their prices, but the smoothness of their wine rendered such objections crass.

He’d come here alone before, enjoying the freedom of anonymity as he played the part of his own steward, dickering over the price of his stallion’s fees at stud. Now there was something money _could_ buy, he thought to himself with a crooked smile. He found it useful to see for himself the kind of people he was doing business with; well, that was what he’d said, though a part of it was to demonstrate a point. Reynault was tirelessly honest and loyal, but to his late lady’s memory, Gisborne suspected, rather than to his present lord; the man needed reminding who his master was, now and then. Maybe it was as well he’d found his own woman rather than relying on the steward to solve the problem for him.

His opposite number in the dickering that day had been an astute bow-legged man who looked Ben over with pursed lips, then tried, and failed, to knock down the price on the grounds that the quality of his progeny was as yet to be proved. Which was true enough, and the fee had already been calculated to reflect that fact. After all, this was very much a side-line for the manor at present, with a little fun for the horse; only fair, now his rider enjoyed some regular fun of his own.

His business concluded, Gisborne accepted another cup of wine from the pert serving wench, feeling mellow enough to return her wink if not to take her up on the offer it implied. Another time perhaps, he thought, watching her tuck the small coin into the neck of her shift to lodge between her generous breasts. And then again perhaps not. The more you put it about, the more complications arose.

The stallion had been left in the paddock, content to crop at lush grass laced with chamomile and calendula. Gisborne was considering retrieving the beast and heading for home when there was a commotion outside; the ragged staccato of hooves and loud masculine voices that signalled new arrivals at the inn. Soon a merchant was pushing his way though the door, a couple of wiry, hard-bitten men at his heels. These latter proceeded to glare round the low-beamed room, fixing the clientele with steely-eyed glares while their master seated himself, tossing his feathered cap onto his table and brushing down his rich but sober tunic with fastidious care.

Candlelight gleamed on heavy gold rings as the newcomer beckoned the serving girl over to him. She poured the wine, giggling as a silver _denier_ appeared between his fingers, before sending it to join Gisborne’s coin in its warm hiding-place. But the newcomer’s bland expression crumpled to a frown when his whispered questions brought him nothing but a shake of the head and a whirl of skirts as the girl scurried off with her prize.

Gisborne sank back into the shadows as the merchant stood and raised his goblet to the room.

“Your health, good sirs!” He raised his cup again and took a token sip. “I am seeking directions to a manor over by the town of Avallon.”

Not this **_AGAIN_** ?

The line of fine hairs that began at Gisborne's nape stood on end, pricking all the way down to the base of his spine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, a hand on the hilt of his sword, commonsense yammering at him that he was dangerously outnumbered here. Male voices still echoed outside, along with the chink of harness and the stomp of hooves; the merchant's men numbered more than the two in the room. Yet he was roused enough to be past caring, trusting in his height and a face that radiated darkness and danger...

_like a storm-cloud over the Auvergne_ …

…while his opponent was a head shorter and neat-featured, with long-lashed brown eyes that would be the envy of any young girl.

“Who’s asking?” he said, his low growl born in the depths of his throat.

The merchant batted those very fine lashes of his; then he recovered and spread his hands. “I am Laurent Martin, my man.” He looked Gisborne up and down, a lip curling as he took in Gisborne’s plain and dusty attire. “Merchant of Auxerre and cousin-by-marriage to the _prévost_ of Avallon, the honorable _Maistre_ Guiscard of Flavigny.”

“And your business?”

“None of yours,” was the smug retort. “Since it is with the lady of Vignoles-sous-Avallon herself.”

The knots in Gisborne’s shoulders loosened, and he almost laughed. No business of his indeed! If this Martin fellow had designs on the manor that adjoined his own, it was no more than the red-haired baggage deserved - always supposing she intended to return from wherever she'd gone. Hopefully her protracted absence meant she’d given up the struggle of life as a widow alone and taken herself off to a nunnery, after fostering out those two wild brats of hers. And heaven help whoever took them on, he reflected, his grin turning to a grimace at the thought of their relentless energy, their busy inquiring minds.

But this arrogant merchant was beginning to annoy him, with his self-satisfied expression and his peremptory manner; luxuries he owed to his hired help, for his hands were too soft for him to be a fighting man.

“Have you come far?” Gisborne asked, with a solicitude that was patently false. “Because I very much fear you’ve had a wasted journey. The lady of Vignoles is not at home. In fact,” he drawled with considerable satisfaction, “it’s doubtful she’ll return.”

 

**The River Loire**.

The bustling port of La Charité-sur-Loire was far behind them; the towers and bells and crowding slate roofs of Gien and Orléans were lying in their wake. And still the broad expanse of the river stretched on, sliding from under the pointed prow of their _gabarre,_  slowly and endlessly unrolling like a grey-blue bolt of watered silk.

The measured pace demanded by a duchess still broken by the pain of her husband’s repudiation grated on Jehane’s patience like the scrape of a knife on a pewter dish. She watched the barges that met and passed them, skimming on upstream on bellying white sails, and she fought the envy that gnawed at her vitals like a nest of rats. Her future awaited her at Fontevrault, the whole future of her little family, and she was wasting too much of it dawdling here.

A heron carked and rose from its great ragged nest, long legs trailing, as their bow-wave rippled to the shore. A gull answered with its mournful cry and a human voice rang out, adding its reedy challenge to the day and to the sky. Jehane turned to see Aubrey balancing pigeon-toed on the wash strake of their barge, arms spread like wings and laughing for joy.

Our Lady Mother save us!

“Come down,” she breathed, sick apprehension climbing her throat. “What in the name of all the saints do you think you’re doing now?’

"Cark, cark!” came the answer. “I’m a Norseman, the scourge of the seas, running the oars on my dragon boat.” The unrepentant child completed the precarious turn, foot over foot, and ran back towards the stern.

“You are not a Viking, and this is not the sea,” Jehane called out to the retreating back, helpless to do anything but wait with her heart in her mouth as her incorrigible firstborn executed another pigeon-toed turn and ran the strake towards her again.

This wild behaviour in such exalted company did her no credit as a mother. She'd opened her mouth to administer a long-overdue scolding when a memory bobbed up; her younger self, shuffling out on the window-ledge of a high turret room, with Lys already outside, one arm locked round the ivy that cloaked the tower with midnight green, the other outstretched and beckoning to her.

_Come on, Jeh’net, you can do it. It’s_ fun!

Fun it had been; she could still taste the exhilaration of those dizzy heights and the triumph of conquering her fears. They'd vied with each other in new feats of daring after that, still undeterred when her companion lay at the foot of a giant tree in a pool of blood; the fun  was tinged with graphic danger then but all the sweeter somehow. Suddenly she understood what had driven Robert and his love of the tourney; yet she had come to adulthood with an adult’s sense of responsibility, while he'd remained a carefree thrill-seeker with no thought beyond the immediate hour.

“I _know_ it’s not the sea, Maman.” The scornful young voice cut into her thoughts. “It’s the River Loire. And not deep enough here to come up to my knees if I do fall in.".A wistful look misted the sandy-lashed eyes. “But it would be the sea if we went far enough. Or am I to spend my whole life at Vignoles-sous-Avallon?”

Jehane looked up into the earnest face and sighed. “We’re not at Vignoles now,” she pointed out, with what she hoped was a bracing smile. And a future at Vignoles-sous-Avallon is the least of your worries, she thought to herself, willing the sluggish current of time to speed on and bring her to her goal. Even so, it was good to see animation replace the preoccupied stare; though perversely, the ebullient Thierry of a while ago had turned sullen and quiet now.

“He’s just bored sitting about all day.” Aubrey had followed the direction of her gaze to the forlorn figure hunched in the prow. “He wants to help the men catch fish but they wouldn’t let him. In case he falls in, they said, and a big old pike eats him up. I think it’s really because he gets under their feet.”

And who could argue with that, Jehane thought resignedly. Thierry had his father’s looks; it was to be hoped he wouldn't share his attitude to life when he came of age.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz**.

The merchant from Auxerre had left the inn with his hirelings, disgruntled to learn his business with Vignoles was doomed to failure, whatever it was. Gisborne had dismissed him from his thoughts before the sound of their hoofbeats died away; there’d been Ben’s assignation with a buxom bay mare to facilitate, and then, as always, the manor bounds to ride and the accounts to pore over with Master Reynault.

Affairs continued to prosper, largely due to the skill and acuity of his steward, he was well aware of that; rents and taxes were collected and deposited with smooth regularity. Stud fees were minimal as yet, but work on the fishpond continued, and the mill would come into production by the autumn months. In short, the figures reassured him that the new boots and gloves, the two pairs of fine wool breeches and the shirts of best black _chainsil_ he’d collected from  Vézelay a week ago had not been an extravagance; He'd even thought of ordering breeches and jerkin in finest soft leather as well; he had no intention of widening his social circle, but he was the lord of Li Rossinholetz and he wanted the days of being taken for a down-at-heel _routier_ over and done - unless the role suited his purpose of course. That devil’s whelp had been right in this at least; sometimes it was good to escape.

It was a Sunday when the even tenor of his life changed once again; another sabbath when he’d risen before dawn and lost himself in the wilds to avoid the problem of non-attendance at Mass. He’d found Father Joscelin to be an intelligent man, his mild manner almost accommodating; but he reasoned the priest would not thank him for the lightening bolt that would strike the little church the manor shared with Vignoles if the late unlamented Sheriff of Nottingham’s one-time enforcer showed up, dragging his collection of heinous crimes behind him like a phantom ball and chain.

He returned as a woad-blue darkness was flooding the sky from east to west, to find his quiet domain in a state of siege. A milling throng crowded the yard, churning the neat white gravel with their pacing, revealing the dark clay loam beneath. A knot of village men had gathered before the house, gesticulating angrily; their women and children cried and the old folk hunkered in corners, bewildered and pale.

Ben snorted his displeasure at the disruption, so Gisborne dismounted at the gate, leaving the stallion to trot round the perimeter towards the orchard and peace. Then he strode over to demand an explanation, not liking the look of the situation any more than the horse.

A grizzled elder stood by the open door, patting a nervous mare on the neck and talking earnestly with Reynault. The beast’s whisking tail continued to flag her agitation; Blancheflor, Gisborne realised, recognising the plump hind-quarters and milk-white coat.

“What’s going on here?”

“This is Ernoul, Messire, from Vignoles,” the steward introduced. “An army of men rode in this morning, he tells me, and took their manor over.”

‘Ernoul’ ducked a grey-fringed pate in deference. “Sieur... They says as how they was under orders, Sieur,  from my Lady Jehane.” The rheumy eyes were mournful in his long face. “All sorts they was; smiths, carpenters, masons and the like, along of some heavy types with swords and knives and that. Then their leader rides up; cousin to Mistress Hawise the _prévost_ 's wife over to Avallon, he says, and they was doing the place up. A surprise for his affianced bride while she’s away.”

The old man shrugged and scratched his head. “But it don’t add up, Sieur, not to my mind." he said, interrupting himself to gentle the balking mare again. "We wasn’t told of no betrothal. And how can it be under the Lady's orders and a surprise for her as well, depending on who’s doing the talking to us? Now they’ve gone and thrown us out of the cottages as well -  for repairs, they says, but who’s to know what to think or where to go?”

Gisborne massaged the back of his neck. So here was the smug merchant again, and nothing if not persistent, too. Affianced bride? If this were true, he wished him joy of her. Whatever the case, she’d be too busy in future to meddle with him.

“Not my problem,” he said, turning on a booted heel to push past his steward and enter the house.

On the doorstep, he paused, relenting a touch. “You can leave the mare with us. After all,” he went on, a corner of his narrow mouth quirking as he cast a glance in the stallion's wake. “Blancheflor’s almost family. Now get this rabble out of my yard.”

" **NOW**!” he bellowed as the two men stood there, staring at him.

_Humanity is a weakness..._

Their reproachful gaze halted him, and he glowered. “Do they have family they can double up with?” he asked grudgingly, gesturing at the mingled groups from both _demesnes._ “You’re an inbred lot round here after all.” Then he cursed himself under his breath, remembering too late how he’d been deceived into thinking this was so. Well, he supposed he’d as good as committed himself by now. 

Later, when he’d gone up to bed, Marian floated before him in the dark of the night; she whose humanity was her strength. She was as ethereal as an angel in her smoke-grey gown, her perfect features softly glowing as the moon through mist. How could he have dared to love her? He could never be the better man she’d wanted him to be.

She faded, and he heard the murmur of that quiet voice that came to haunt him whenever his guard was down.

 _You are more than you think you are_ , amics...

 **WOMAN**! Stay out of my head!

Gisborne rolled onto his face, slamming his forearm on the bed. She should have let him die! Instead she’d condemned him to live on, knowing himself for what he was.

Yet outside his window a nightingale was singing its heart out, the liquid notes spilling into the darkness like silver rain.

 

 **The Loire Valley**.

Town followed town as day followed day. Nights were spent within the welcoming walls of abbey guesthouses or the occasional inn, their small fleet of barges moored alongside.

Slowly the great river lulled them, its lazy pace transporting them to another world. Rocked in this beautiful watery limbo, the cares of the past slipped further away with every pull of the oars;  the fate that awaited them at the royal abbey seemed as far removed from reality as the land of Faerie from the Arthurian tales, wreathed in the mists of eternity.

Jehane leaned over the side of the low-slung _gabarre_ and trailed an idle hand in luminous liquid silk, her fingers combing the gentle flow and entrapping the occasional frond of weed. The boat slid between greening banks lined with alder and ash, while here and there willows wept over the stream like maidens mourning lost loves. Small creatures rustled among the sedges, enjoying the respite from the sun: water rats and the rare glimpse of a shy otter; while blue-green dragonflies jewelled the reed beds and foxgloves and small purple orchids studded the grass.

Middays saw them nudging up to a convenient sandbank, depositing the cooks from the baggage barge to grill eel and shad bought at the last village, downwind of the Duchess’ delicate nose. Afternoons found them under way again, replete with the delicate flesh of fresh fish and the pleasant bite of cress gleaned from among the shallows.

By now the children had deserted her for newfound friends among the convoy and she’d been content to let them go, secure in the knowledge of so many pairs of watchful eyes. A crow of laughter came from the Duchess’ craft as Aubrey bent over a game of tables with one of the young pages. Thierry meanwhile was lording it over the baggage barge; he’d accepted the indignity of a rope round his waist to anchor him to the mast since he held the coveted fishing pole in his hands. He waved triumphantly whenever she looked his way.

Music drifted over the water, and Jehane closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face and the soft breeze that smelt of green margins and rich brown mud. So many years, lived at the run... She could hardly recall the last day she’d had time and peace to herself, with nothing to do and no one tugging at her attention or her skirts.

Perhaps not since those magical few weeks in Ghent…Unconsciously her lips curved in a rueful smile as she recalled the morning her father had summoned her to his office; a daunting rarity in itself, for he was always too preoccupied to be much more than a stranger to her. First he'd dismissed his apprentice, a cousin, she'd thought, a slight pale young man with hair to rival her own; then he told her he had good news for her. The Count, he added complacently, had done him the singular honour of finding a husband for her.

She’d returned to the gloomy solar, sick with dread. The memory of Lys’ stricken, stoic face as she was bundled off in a carriage for Dijon and marriage to some dry old stick had haunted her for the four years since. But Robert de Saint Aubin had come with flowers and trinkets and the exquisite cone-shaped raspberry comfits that were a costly local delicacy; an excellent match for a clerk’s daughter, she was told; a younger son, but from a noble Burgundian family. She had been sixteen, with less experience of the world than her contemporaries and easily besotted; With his golden brown hair and moss agate eyes, she'd thought him the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Once wed, the idyll had barely lasted till the first babe fell into her womb and slipped from her before its time. Before long she’d learned that whatever he did or did not gave her, he would always be a drain on her resources and support...

“You have an admirer!”

Jehane started at the voice in her ear. The Lady Maheult had come to sit beside her and was setting neat stitches into a torn veil; one belonging to her mistress, to judge from the gossamer fineness of the silk. The older woman indicated the Duchess’ barge with a discreet nod of the head, surprising Jehane into glancing across the narrowing ribbon of water that separated them. A young blond minstrel was smiling at her as his boat drew nearer, plucking at his _vielle_ and acknowledging her with a courtly bow.

 _L’amors dont sui espris_ , he sang, _Me semont de chanter_...

The love that fires my soul compels my heart to sing...

Love indeed! she thought with a bitter smile. Even if this brash young cub had been the renowned Blondel de Nesle himself, she had no interest in playing that game. She’d long since had her fill of what passed for the emotion in cold reality.

But why dwell on that now? The past was best consigned to the past - along with all thought of the brooding male presence that had bedeviled her in more recent times. Yet at once he was playing on her mind again, tall and lean, with his strong features and commanding voice. She settled her shoulders determinedly, refusing to allow him dwelling space in her head, and searched in her basket for a piece of mending of her own.

For it was pleasure enough to drift in the summer sunshine, listening to the music as it wove though the song of the river and the calls of birds. As for the future, that could take care of itself.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz**.

Gisborne woke from uneasy dreams, stretching the kinks from his limbs and eyeing the arched outline of his bedchamber window with disapproval. It was still barely distinguishable from the dense black shadow that reigned inside. Rising in the small hours on two consecutive days had formed no part of his plans: nevertheless he was too restless to go back to sleep.

Ben in contrast welcomed the early start, greeting him at the door with a nicker of pleasure, the tips of his mane and tail still frosted with the mist that hung in dark corners and dips. In the stable, Blancheflor stood with her weight on one hip, drowsing in concert with the rest of the world, save for one man and his great black horse.

The sky had barely greyed by the time he found himself on the bluff overlooking the manor of Vignoles. The sun’s first blush was a mere hint on the eastern horizon, yet there was light enough to make the recent changes plain. The village had always been an untidy, tumbledown settlement, but it had been alive; smoke from cooking fires had curled from roof-holes, while the sounds of men at work vied with the cries of livestock and the shouts of noisy children as they herded poultry or played their chasing games. Now silence and stillness prevailed where the morning bustle should have already begun.

The cottages were mere huddled mounds of rubble, the only smoke the acrid pall of dust that hovered like some malevolent ghost; it ate at the delicate lining of his nose, even from here. So much for the promise of repairs! Meanwhile, a motley assortment of tents clustered in a far corner; housing for Martin's guards and the artisans tasked with taking the place apart.

Colour was slowly returning to the landscape as curiosity and an intangible feeling of unease drove him down from the ridge to seek a closer look at the rest of the estate. The mist still clung thickly to the hedge-bottoms as he neared the manor house, but the sound of the stallion’s hooves flushed out a stooping figure that had been hunkered in the gloom.

“Sieur…”

It was Ernoul, the village elder from the day before. The greybeard jerked a grizzled chin in the direction of the yard, made to spit, then thought better of it in the presence of a lord. “They’ve ate all the chooks and quackers over to the village,” he intoned, lugubriously. “Only there bain’t no village no more. Looks like they’re doing the same over here and all.”

Gisborne rested his hands on his horse’s neck and surveyed the scene. The ramshackle gate was gone, its replacement much taller and chained and padlocked with an impressive array of ironmongery. It was still too dark to make out much detail beyond the raw wooden bars, but he could see that the outbuildings had gone, along with any livestock they might have held. The roof was off the house itself, while a jumbled heap in one corner represented what was left after the contents had been picked over for anything of worth.

Some renovation! The merchant was razing the entire manor to make it over in his image of what a prosperous landowner's holding should be. There'd be a fancy little palace for himself, no doubt, and a model village for a select few retainers, all to be presented to his affianced bride as a _fait accompli_. As the sun rose and the light increased, Gisborne's gaze fell on the lavish tent that sat in the middle of the yard like a vast crimson wen, and his mouth twisted in amused contempt.

Then he shrugged and nudged at his stallion’s flanks with his heels, leaving the old man to snivel and slap at his knees. All this was nothing to him; nor did it matter that the story behind it depended on who was doing the telling.  But by the time the russet roofs of Li Rossinholetz were showing above their ruffled skirting of trees, the unease that had nagged at him since the previous evening began to coalesce, opening a sliver of clarity in his brain.

Before long the overflow from the ruined cottages would make his own village unlivable.Tempers would rise, fights erupt; yet to turn the newcomers out on the roads would be to unleash an epidemic of begging and thievery on the countryside -  to say nothing of leaving their Li Rossinholetz kinfolk too resentful and bloody-minded to give him a decent day’s work.

By nightfall, when his supper was served by a grim-faced Reynault and a buxom pink-eyed kitchen girl, another thought had surfaced; one that must have been percolating in some dark corner of his mind while he'd been looking the other way. With Master Martin’s boots under a shiny new table and a brand-new heir in the crib, those two young pups would be out on their ears.

The prospect should not have lost him a moment’s peace, not after the dance they had led him, but the words escaped his mouth before he was aware of it. “Reynault,” he said, as his steward turned to pad away with the remains of his meal. “Send me the headman of Vignoles village.”

The retainer hesitated at the door, a hand on the wrought-iron ring. “Ernoul is old, Messire,” he murmured, “And sick with grief...”

Out of his skull on whatever they drank round here, Gisborne translated. The old soak had been good enough for few robust curses that morning when he’d met him in the lane.

“That was a friend of my daughter’s, helping out here tonight,” the steward went on, nodding in the direction of the kitchen, whence the pink-eyed girl had fled a moment or so ago. “Berthe is her name. She worked up at the house there, Messire; she would be able to tell you what has been going on... If that was your intention of course.” 

**The Loire Valley.**

**l.**

Jehane was aware of a renewed feeling of restlessness as the little flotilla neared the ancient city of Tours.

The time of pleasant ease on the river, that limbo between departure and arrival  was coming to an end; for it was here that the final stage of her journey of discovery would begin. In the morning the two parties would take leave of each other; the Duchess Teresa and her entourage donning sober garb before joining the way of Saint James, down through Poitiers and Blaze, then over the pass at Roncevalles to Compostela and its holy shrine. She, Jehane, and the lady Maheult would continue downriver to Candes on the confluence with the River Vienne, there to take horse for the short ride to the royal abbey of Fontevrault.

Mindful of the rigors that lay ahead, the main company planned a last taste of comfort and luxury that night, before the self-denial of the pilgrimage must begin. The richest silks and jewels would make a final appearance before being stowed away in the baggage chests, and a feast of the finest of delicacies was promised; ground breast of fowl poached in almond milk, freshly made spiced pastries dusted with powdered pistachio from Outremer, and honeyed compotes of the fruits village women had brought to sell to them along the way.

Jehane had grown too much at ease with the company to shrink from appearing yet again in her tired grey wool; still all she owned that was remotely respectable. Indeed, she’d often been urged to spend time in the Duchess’s own barge, and everyone had been graciousness itself. Even the children were regarded with amused indulgence in the loose linen shirts and breeches which were pronounced eminently sensible for travel and their youthful energy. Offers of loans and gifts of richer attire had been plentiful, but she could not accept what felt like charity, and her refusals were met with kindness, understanding, and discreet spiritings away for sponging and freshening on overnight stops.

Her nervous excitement for the morrow soothed somewhat by the prospect of tonight’s feast, she passed a lazy hour in untangling the Duchess’s broderie silks, before packing them away in their cedarwood casket for the duration of the solemn journey ahead. There was a dreamy satisfaction in restoring order to the multi-coloured chaos, arranging them in their reds and yellows, their greens and blues and on down to deepest violet; a miniature rainbow fallen to earth and imprisoned in a box.

Suddenly her nape pricked beneath her veils as a shadow fell across her, cutting off the mellow rays of the late afternoon sun. A distant movement caught the tail of her eye and she flinched involuntarily as a slight, soft weight landed in her lap; a nosegay of eglantine and blue alkenet gathered from some grassy bank upstream.

She only realised that the music had stopped when it started again; a pretty _canso_ from Jaufre Rudel.

_Quan lo rius de la fontana..._

"When the fountain’s silver rill  
Runs crystal clear on spring’s green hill…"

The blond minstrel nodded and smiled at her as he strummed his _vielle_ and she turned away abruptly, annoyed that she’d been caught noticing him again.

“He is incorrigible,” murmured the Duchess Teresa at her side. “Young and charming – and he knows it.” The full red mouth curved into a sad smile. “Yet I am almost sorry to have to let him go. His music is a solace to the heavy of heart.” She smiled again as Jehane compressed her lips, shaking her head at such presumption. “All the same, you should speak with him, my dear.” And her tone made it clear that this was less a suggestion than a command.

But by then the roofs and towers of Tours were appearing round a bend in the river and all thought of such an encounter went out of a mind occupied with preparations for going ashore, and the safety of two adventurous children, shallow though the water was or not.

 **ll**.  
 

In the end, Jehane was left little choice in the matter; the minstrel came to her in the guest house of the Abbey of St Julien that night, strolling towards her and strumming his _vielle._

 _A la fontana del vergier_ , he sang.

"By the fountain in an orchard,  
Where the grass grew lush and long…"

Jehane heaved a sigh as he seated himself beside her at the trestle. She’d been sipping at a cup of watered wine, attempting to drive thoughts of the onward journey from her head before seeking her pallet in the women’s dorter, and sleep. It seemed that this was not to be.

"Beneath boughs of fragrant blossom,  
Serenaded by spring’s sweet song…"

Never had she yearned more for the children to run up and bludgeon her with their usual barrage of questions, forestalling this unwelcome interview; but they were asleep already under the care of the lady Maheult, worn out by the excitements of the day.

"There I found her, lorn and lonely…"

"Don’t blame me, blame the silver tongue of the troubadour of troubadours, the incomparable Marcabru,” was the unrepentant reply when she waved the man and his music away. “But no beautiful woman should be sad of eye and hard of heart."

Jehane found herself struggling to suppress a snort of laughter at this blatant flattery. The Duchess was right; he was incorrigible! “I cannot afford you,” she said aloud; one of them at least should be blunt if they were not to waste each other’s time,

“No one _affords_ Thibault of Larouquebrou!” he stated grandly, bowing low before her with one hand on his heart. “I come and go at the promptings of my spirit alone.” And he strummed extravagantly at his _vielle_ again, as if to emphasise the demanding nature of his art. “But alas, I make no secret of it; I am compelled to seek employ now my duchess is turning her face away from this world. Even a great artist needs to eat.” A wink revealed this grandiose statement as a part of his public persona, though for a fleeting moment Jehane had glimpsed the anxious boy behind the mask.

Finally he relaxed his jaunty pose, setting his be-ribboned instrument on the trestle. “My lady Duchess has ordered me to speak with you,” he began, stroking the strips of scarlet silk as he spoke; his voice was quiet now and furred with tiredness, all trace of bombast gone. “Before my time in Dijon, I was in Paris, at the court of King Phillip Auguste. But formerly I was in the service of the Countess of Vézelay. I am told this would mean something to you.”

Jehane’s mouth was instantly dry and her heart beat like a trapped bird against her ribs. Was this her chance to learn what had transpired in the months between Lys’ last visit and her death in an abbey on the borders of Anjou and Poitou; something that had led a dear friend to renege on a solemn vow and deny two children the secure future she had promised to them?

Hope against hope, she forced her next words out, though her lips and tongue felt numb. “The Countess and I were children together. You were with her then, across the Narrow Sea?”

Thibault of Larouquebrou nodded. “From our landing at Hull in the north to our sailing from Portsmouth in the south. It was at Saint-Lô in Normandy that I parted from her...” Here he hesitated, but on Jehane’s gesture of encouragement, he went on. “You may know she was unwell and heading for retirement at the abbey of Fontevrault? It was at her insistence that I made my way to Paris, where her letters of introduction brought me my previous post. But that was the last I knew of her, my lady, may Christ and all his angels assoil her, until the news of her death reached us at Dijon.”

“Then you will have passed through the English shire of Nottingham together.” A further nod all but emptied her lungs of breath. “And you encountered a certain knight there, a... Guy of Gisborne?”

The minstrel brushed his blond locks from his eyes and gave a sour smile. “No lover of music, that one; nor of life in general, I think. A tall, dark, ill-tempered streak of water if ever there was one, and never without a glower or a grimace on his face.”

The hawkish features, the harsh timbre of his voice that haunted the periphery of her thoughts... All it took was a moment's abstraction for them to shoulder their way to the forefront again. But this scotched any hope of stolen identity, flimsy last resort though it had been. Deep disappointment mingled with confusion in her head. “So you saw no grounds for mutual understanding between your lady and him?” she probed.

Thibault’s laugh was scornful. “Word was the sheriff of those parts had his eye on some of her holdings that lay within his sphere; this Gisborne was the dog he set on her to ensure she didn’t leave before he got his hands on them.”

Cold horror stalked her, along with a little skip of bitter-sweet joy. So it was true! Lys had not forgotten her after all; she'd been ambushed and robbed in Nottingham. He must have forced her to cede Li Rossinholetz to him as well, as a little sweetener for himself,

But her chance informer had not finished his account. “The Countess was ever a gracious lady to all she encountered,” he was saying, laying the scene of a picnic before her in all its stark detail. “With my own eyes I saw her honour him with food from her own hands; yet she had nothing but boorishness from him for her pains. Indeed, she was compelled to gallop away from him to escape his rudeness, and still he persisted in hounding her.”

“And then?” Jehane prompted, convinced there must be more, for what he had just told her was rife with contradictions, making no kind of sense.

But the minstrel shrugged his shoulders in his white silk tunic emblazoned with the mulberry cross of Burgundy. “What else could there have been? We rejoiced to leave the dismal place behind, for the weather was as dire as the company.”

So why did she sense that this brash young man had not been as frank with her as he pretended to be? It had something to do with the way his eyes slid away from hers at her last question perhaps, his cheeks tinged with the merest touch of pink.

A long silence drew itself out while she held his gaze. Finally he shook his head and took an unsteady breath. “If I were to be honest for the first time in my life, my lady,” he confided sheepishly, “ I would have to admit they could have become mortal enemies or, if you will forgive the impertinence, the most passionate of lovers, and I would have been none the wiser, I fear. A banquet was laid on for those of us in her retinue on our last night at the castle, and we were all drunk as lords. In fact, I can’t remember when I’ve been so out of it.”

Even white teeth flashed in a sudden unrepentant grin. “If you discount the following night, that is, when we’d been caught on the road by the worst storm since Noah’s flood. Though if I was dead to the world then, it was from exhaustion and not a drop had passed my lips.” He shrugged again, dismissively. “I did hear he saved her stallion from drowning in a swollen stream. But what does it matter? You will have known what moved the Lady Alix’s heart and mind far better than I.”

It mattered in as far as it explained this Gisborne's closeness to the high-strung beast. But with this, the minstrel’s disclosures were at an end, leaving her with more questions than answers, and her thoughts in greater disarray than they had been before. Now more than ever she longed for the morrow and the counsel of Eleanor of Aquitaine. Here there was nothing left to do but murmur her thanks and send him to entertain a group of the Duchess Teresa’s ladies who were sitting over the last of the sweetmeats and finishing a jug of wine; though they’d probably regret it at the hour of Lauds when they woke with the nuns for an early start on the Compostela road.

Had she ever truly known the woman who was Alix of Vézelay, Jehane wondered, as she wound her way through the darkened corridors, heading for bed. The impetuous children of the days in Ghent were long gone, yet the warmth and closeness of their connection had endured down the years, strong as ever at their last meeting - or so she had felt at the time. She could not begin to guess what had passed between her beloved friend and this sheriff’s dogsbody, this _routier_ whose questionable past had just been confirmed for her in all its dark malevolence. 

Back in the dorter she bent over the oblivious forms at the lady Maheult’s motherly side, envying them the relaxed innocence of childhood sleep. At their age they knew no harm could come to them with a loving parent to fight their cause. And fight she would, if need be. She refused to let the minstrel’s words dishearten her. The _routier_ might be who he claimed to be, but there'd been enough in Thibault’s account to allow for hope that her troubles were due to rank injustice or some terrible mistake; like the rainbow tangle of the broderie silks, easy to unravel once she found the right thread to pull.

Fontevrault lay mere hours away. There the matter would be resolved, for once and for all.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen.

The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.

The candles had not burned down half a notch when the girl Berthe was ushered in, flustered and still pink-eyed; she was wringing her hands and clutching at her apron by turns.

“Tell the lord what you just told me,” the steward prompted, and she collected herself enough to look Gisborne in the face.

“If it please you, Sieur, my lady knows no Master Laurent Martin.” Her voice gained strength along with her indignation and concern. “She never received no affianced husband at Vignoles, nor spoke of one neither.” The round red cheeks quivered as she shook her head. “In fact,” she went on, warming to her theme. "Many’s the time I’ve heard her say as how having had the one man in your life was one too much... Saving your presence, Sieur,” she added hastily with a little bob, realising her zeal had run away with her tact.

“Well, Reynault,” Gisborne said with a yawn and a stretch, when the still flustered girl had been led out. “Tomorrow I’ll be spending some time with Mistress Mélis… While you’re paying a call on _Maistre_ Guiscard in Avallon.”

The retainer’s expressionless features thawed for the first time since the outcasts from Vignoles had turned up, and he inclined his head approvingly. You could never get a better idea of a man’s reputation than from his cousin by marriage - unless it was from a local woman of the world.

And there was no harm in mixing a little pleasure with your business, Gisborne reflected. Glowing with virtue, he headed upstairs to sleep the sleep of the just, whether the nightingale was there to serenade him or not.

 

**The Town of Domécy sur Cure.**

Mélis was flustered too, but more interestingly so when the stallion had clattered over the wooden bridge into Domécy and Gisborne leaned on her door.

“Am I interrupting?” he murmured as she smiled up at him professionally, clutching her rose silk bedrobe round her neat form.

“How could you be, my lord?” As always she stood aside and motioned for him to enter before the gossips down the street got a good look at him. This district viewed itself as a respectable neighbourhood, and discretion was worth money to all concerned.

“A girl’s got to earn a living,” he remarked pointedly, removing his gloves and throwing them on the trestle to join the remains of a meal; a loaf of bread, soft cheese, a butter crock. The single cup for the jug of wine was probably no more than a lucky chance; but as always he allowed himself to go along with her cleverly-crafted fantasy of exclusivity.

“Laurent Martin…” she mused some time later, as they lay together in her darkened chamber, propped up on pillows and sharing the last of her abandoned meal. “A wine merchant; young compared to many of his peers, but successful, a supplier to the nobility, no less. No!” She laughed as Gisborne raised a brow and gave her a knowing half-smile. “We have not... _met_. His warehouses are in Auxerre and he has women there whom he sees in strict rotation; or so I am reliably informed.”

A wine merchant... And with the acquisition of Vignoles-sous-Avallon, he would have his own vineyard too; a choice one, or about to be if Reynault was to be believed. Not to mention that titled wife; one he need not shrink from taking to bed, supposing he could silence that mouth of hers. He realised now what else had been bothering him since the tenants from Vignoles had arrived on his land. Had Martin caught wind of her claim to Li Rossinholetz, with its own vineyard and other rich assets? In that case there would be no stopping him; or so the smug bastard would be telling himself.

Mélis dipped a thumb in her goblet and ran it down the deep furrow between his brows. “Was our encounter so unpleasant?” she chided. “And here I am, wasting good earning time with you! Though I could be persuaded to waste a little more if it will take that frown from your face.” And she wrapped herself around him again.

Gisborne found he was more than able to rise to the occasion; but then Mélis was a skilled practitioner of her art.

 

 **The Town of Candes St Martin, Touraine**.

The morning breeze blew off the river, chill to the shorn lamb.

Aubrey de Saint Aubin reined in the piebald pony, running a hand through blunt-cut sandy locks and summoning a triumphant grin. It was a blessed relief to be rid of the heavy thatch, so hot and prickly in the hot July sun, and revel in the freshness and freedom of a cropped neck at last.

Lurid tales of lice and fleas on the road had been enough to convince Sister Philomena to do the deed. Of course, Maman had pulled her sour lemon face and said it looked as if it’d been hacked off with a blunt eating knife; which wasn’t the case at all, though the nun hadn’t been too sharp-sighted or neat with her shears, having been singled out specifically for her great age and susceptibility to a wheedling child.

A rattle of shod hooves heralded the approach of Thierry in the cobbled ginnel that led to the waterside. The novelty of the fishing pole had worn off towards the end of the journey and he’d hunched, sullen and silent, in the confines of the _gabarre_ for the past few days. But the overnight stay at the abbey of Saint Martin had delighted him, with its legend of the Roman knight who’d sliced his mantle in two to share its crimson splendour with a beggar man. Privately, Aubrey had thought half a cloak a little niggardly for a saint, and he’d have amassed more treasure in heaven if he'd handed over the whole thing.

They’d been shown a great chained book too, with a jewel-bright illumination of the blessed Martin himself, swaddled like a babe in his tiny wolf-headed skiff. The saint’s face had looked too smug under his bishop’s mitre for true holiness; perhaps he thought he was headed for Paradise anyway, despite his stinginess with the cloak.

Now Thierry titupped sedately past on the bay pony, straight-backed and tall in the saddle; clearly he was a _preux chevalier_ again. Aubrey regarded him critically from the standpoint of greater years, envying him his simpler world of stories and games. Better-off boys their age would be off being fostered by now, as pages or squires in some great lord’s household; there he’d have discovered that being a knight was not all feats of valour and shining coats of mail.

Papa was too hazy a memory to provide a clue as to what true knighthood involved - or explain what had taken him away from home and family so often and so eagerly, only to die on the tusks of some bristly old pig. But what about him, their Knight in black? He was rude and short-tempered rather than chivalrous, and wore no rich surcôte or shining coat of mail; though he was as tall and fiery and as skilled with a sword as any Gawain or Lancelot.

Yet there were shadows in his eyes that betrayed him when he thought no one was looking; along with the grim set of his narrow mouth and that rare and incongruous lapse of grace when he moved in a certain way. “An old wound,” he’d snapped once when he’d staggered - which had been only the more intriguing, hinting at hidden volumes behind the brusque words.

More importantly, why was he skulking around at Li Rossinholetz if the manor was to have come to Maman? The revelation had fallen like a thunderbolt on the Duchess of Burgundy's’ stuffy bower. “I doubt he’s the kind of knight anyone should wish to be,” Maman had told them, but then Maman would never forgive him for slapping her bottom while her top half was stuck in the chicken coop. Aubrey leaned down to fiddle with the buckle of a girth, concealing an involuntary smirk.That singular act of daring had made him seem something of a hero, wrong though it was to think that way.

All the same, it appeared he’d ridden into Li Rossinholetz and taken it, just like that. He was certainly fierce enough to have done so, Aubrey conceded, remembering the eyes that flashed cold blue fire, the commanding voice with its edge of roughness, and that wickedly sharp sword. If he had truly seized by force of arms what was not his to take, it was doubly troubling, for it did not detract from his fascination at all.

“Knights don’t lie and cheat.” he’d said, last time they'd met, and that would have been condemning himself out of his own mouth. Besides, he didn’t seem too happy with his new station in life; he just looked tired and sad. And Master Reynault and the Li Rossinholetz folk had accepted him all right - unless they were just biding their time till someone or something would drive him out.

On the other hand, Maman was far too stiff-necked to twist the truth to her own advantage; in fact, she was her own worst enemy at times. It was not her way to lay claim to something that was not hers by right, nor to be so single-minded in doing so.

In fact, all things considered, Aubrey had been torn both ways. The lure of his forbidden glamour aside, there was the gnawing suspicion that it was unfair to point the finger before both sides of the story had been heard. Yet it had felt deeply disloyal to seek him out after they'd been strictly forbidden to go near him again; it was Thierry and Thierry alone who'd saved a portion of the _pain d’épices_ for the big black horse. The tangled skein of wrongs and rights had failed to register with him, and it had seemed safer not to enlighten him at the time, given the prospect of the endless questions that would certainly ensue.

He'd been halfway to Li Rossinholetz before Aubrey guessed what was going on. There'd been nothing for it but hare after him, if only to protect him from himself and Maman's wrath. But when faced with the excitement of feeding a wild but sensitive animal and the appearance of the Knight in all his dark and disreputable glory, all notion of wrongs and rights flew clean out of your head. Especially when you were presented with the golden opportunity to seek answers to questions that had been disturbing your sleep for weeks ... And brush up on your swordplay as well.

Inevitably, the dilemma had since returned in all its implacable force, with no resolution in sight. For all its new experiences, with its boats and ponies and fascinating abbey guesthouses, this journey was serving as a limited distraction at best.That must be another part of what it meant to be grown up - to live with the raw pain of divided loyalties; to fear that there was no right answer and feel the savage pull of guilt whichever side you took. Not till they reached the abbey of Fontevrault would they know the truth, and the only certainty was that it would hurt, whichever shape it took.

Aubrey watched with a jaundiced eye as the would-be knight continued his swaggering progress down the lane. Maman followed on her hired gelding, her impatient gesture indicating that this was no time for day-dreaming. You only had to look at her to know there were harsher realities behind the legends of ladies fair and damsels in distress. It was all dull work and practicalities with her; hard to believe she’d once been the impulsive child of the Countess’ tales. What mysterious influence had changed her from the girl she'd been to the woman she was now?

No, the world of grown-ups was not a pleasant place; a shadowed, mysterious realm full of hidden precipices and treacherous swamps, and no one would teach you which path to take. You had to make do with the snippets you could winkle out for yourself, with the help of low cunning and a little luck.

indeed, the Knight’s revelations on the general ways of men had been useful and informative. It was fortunate that he was blunt of nature; he had no time for veiled hints of the gooseberry bush or praying to God variety that most adults used to fob you off. You knew exactly where you stood with him.

Even so, sticking yourself into someone else’s body didn’t sound nice at all, no matter what he said. While covert gleanings from here and there suggested there was little choice in the matter anyway; you grew up, you married; then along came the babes and that was that.

Frighteningly, this seemed to apply to everything else in the adult world. Would-be knight or mimsy maid with her stupid embroidery, you’d be snatched up and dumped on the borders of that unknown and unknowable land; and there you’d live forever, changed by some malignant magic into someone you neither recognised nor wanted to be.

The breeze was suddenly colder as their small party turned onto the river bank, and Aubrey shivered, feeling lost and very much alone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz**.

Gisborne was cooling his heels, if not much else, in the vineyard on the hill. Ostensibly he was checking on the progress of his vines; in reality he paid no attention to the bunches of swelling green globes, doing little more than pace back and forth at the head of the rows, massaging the tightness in his jaw.

He’d refused a further offer of food from Mélis, eager once he’d taken his pleasure to get back to the manor and learn what Reynault’s interview with the _prévost_ of Avallon had turned up. Now it was late afternoon and there was still no sign of the man.

He glared with mounting rancour at the lines of diligently bent backs. Tomorrow he’d see to it that the steward earned his money for once, instead of roaming the countryside on his master’s time. For a start, those layabouts from Vignoles needed prodding up here to work off their excess energy. Just as he’d feared, fists had been flying when he rode past his own village; young men, doing what idle young men do, fighting over God knows what.

Though they’d soon changed their tune when they saw the stallion coming for them, teeth snapping, he recalled with a wolfish grin. As for the ones who lacked the brains to scatter, he’d settled their argument for them there and then with the flat of his sword. Come morning, there’d be black and blue arses on all sides.

Nothing of which served to ease his present frustration, for Reynault still failed to appear. The shadows were lengthening, bleeding into the oncoming dusk and the workers were gathering up their tools to leave in silent twos and threes by the time the stocky figure in brown came toiling up the slope.

“Well?”

The retainer blinked at his master’s angry snarl, rubbing his fingers together nervously in a rare departure from his usual impassive demeanour.

“We can manage without you, is that what you think?” Gisborne leaned his long length in close, his voice a low rumble. ”I’ve spent all afternoon doing your job. Pack your bags and get out.”

The other man blinked again, then swallowed, but he stood his ground. “Messire… I decided _Maistre_ Guiscard would be more forthcoming over a meal at the tavern.”

“At **MY** expense?”

“I had my own coin with me, Messire,” was the mild response. “It is for you to judge whether it was money well enough spent. Today was market day, you understand, and the traders were lined up along the hall and down the stairs, waiting to pay their dues; marshalled by the good Tomas, whom you have met.”

Gisborne had not forgotten the bony clerk who’d been so obstructive when he’d called to register his claim. He nodded, albeit reluctantly, forced to admit that any conversation in that truculent presence would have been unproductive. But to spend the afternoon carousing in the tavern when his master was waiting for answers was taking discretion too far.

“What was more,” Reynault was continuing, “I could see the _prévost_ had a visitor with him in his office; lounging in his official chair while he himself was perched on a stool. Came in on the very showy sorrel gelding I saw in the stable, or so I was told.”

“Russet tunic, feathered hat?” Gisborne had stepped back to a less confrontational distance and folded his arms, interested now.

“The very same. I began to think I would have to make my excuses and come back another day. It was well after noon when Master Martin remembered pressing business in Auxerre. Guiscard is a strange man,” the steward added as the two men fell into step on the homeward slope. Below them, the manor house hunkered in the twilight, its windows glowing amber in the gathering gloom. A faint smell of wood smoke and roasting meat wafted towards them, but at the moment, Gisborne had more interest in what the man at his side had to tell him than in food.

“On the surface he seems weak, Messire,” the retainer said. “His wife’s family is moneyed and extensive, with fingers in many pies.”

Gisborne gave a thin, contemptuous smile. “So she winds the purse-strings round his balls and pulls them tight.”

“Or so he lets her believe.” The other man risked a small appreciative grin. “As I said, there is more to him than meets the eye. Martin may be his cousin by marriage, but I gather there is no love lost there; indeed, when I got him to the tavern with a goblet of wine and a slice of pigeon pie before him, he was only too willing to look into the matter of Vignoles."

“And did he?” They had reached the manor house door by then and Gisborne ushered him inside with an impatient wave. “Come on in, man. I’m not throwing you out on your ear... _Yet_.”

Reynault inclined his head and did as he was bid. “You will appreciate we had to wait until the paying-in was over...” he began again, as he stepped across the threshold. “…if we were not to incur the good Tomas'... aid. Hence my decision to prolong our stay in the _Two Cranes_.” He folded his lips, primly. “Which had the added advantage of keeping _Maistre le prévost_ in a receptive mood...”

Gisborne glanced up at the dark oak beams above him and rolled his eyes. A tavern session was not the only thing the steward was bent on prolonging today. But he pushed a chair in the retainer’s direction with a booted foot, then sat down himself. Immediately the once-flirtatious blonde kitchen girl shuffled in, knowing now to offer no more than warm water and towels with lowered eyes.

“Tomas had slunk off to his quarters by the time we returned,” Reynault went on, washing his own hands meticulously at a curt nod from his lord, who was wishing the man would be as mindful of his master’s patience as he was of his personal hygiene and cut this long story short.

“Finally we had the archives to ourselves. And it was as _Maistre_ Guiscard had surmised, Messire. Vignoles-sous-Avallon was formerly in the gift of the counts of Vézelay, who were vassals of the dukes of Burgundy in their turn. With the county now extinct after the Countess' death, the manor falls directly under the aegis of the Duke himself; who is a busy man, and would not, in Guiscard’s opinion, be over-concerned with the status of a minor country holding...” He paused to rub his hands in appreciation as the serving girl brought in a roast haunch of young mutton with mint and new peas. “...unless someone happened to bring it to his attention of course. Strictly speaking, any one-sided move on Martin's part, by marriage or other means, would be classed as unauthorised alienation of fief, and the manor subject to immediate forfeiture.”

Gisborne raised a speculative brow and pursed his lips as he digested this intelligence, before serving himself with the steaming pink meat.

“ _Maistre_ Guiscard volunteered to go to Dijon himself and notify the authorities, if we should wish,” the steward went on. “And he knows the right people to see.” He hazarded another small smile, entertained by the memory of the _prévost_ ’s delight at the prospect of thwarting the ambitions of his obnoxious kin.

“Not those clowns who were here for the Lady Jehane, I hope,” Gisborne retorted as the steward unsheathed his own eating knife. “Oh and Reynault…”

“Messire?”

“You’re hired again. No, don’t thank me; I need you…”

But before the steward could congratulate himself on his indispensability, his lord completed his sentence. “…to ride into Avallon again, tomorrow at first light.”

 

**The Borders of Anjou and Poitou.**

Jehane broke off her conversation with the Lady Maheult on the relative merits of surface and underside couching to watch Thierry canter by on his bay pony. But then gold thread broderie was of minimal interest to her, given the life she led.

She’d been heartened to witness the boy’s energetic bickering over who should ride the piebald with the long black tail that almost brushed the ground. He’d been gloomy in the cramped conditions of the _gabarre_ once the excitement of the fishing pole had palled. Now he was pink-cheeked and grinning in the morning breeze, despite his loss of the dispute.

Aubrey had crowed with triumph on securing the favoured mount, yet the child was dawdling along at present, lost in thought. These periods of morose introspection were beginning to outnumber the times of high spirits and boundless energy, and it was intensely worrying to a mother's heart.

But as was so often the case, these matters must be set aside in the face of more immeidate concerns. Before noon they would reach Fontevrault, where she would find answers to the questions that had tormented her since the day the _routier_ turned up with her children and her precious white mare in tow.

As she rode, she mulled over her conversation with Thibault of Laroquebrou.  The minstrel had dispelled any last notion that this Guy of Gisborne was not who he said he was; but he’d offered no earthly reason why her astute and fastidious Lys should have shown such favour to a ruthless and unscrupulous boor. No, there had been some terrible mistake for sure, and the Duchess of Aquitaine would know what it was.

By the time the stone and slate bulk of the abbey came into sight, Jehane was confident of success; Li Rossinholetz had been promised to her, and it was nothing more than her right. Impatient for vindication, she urged her mount to a gallop, allowing herself to enjoy the breeze on her face and the sights and sounds of the burgeoning countryside. The long idle days on the river had shaken something loose in her; a long-buried desire to shuck off her burdens and kick up her heels;

Yet for now she must be content to let the horse’s racing hooves speak for her. They ran till the gelding’s pace faltered and her eyes stung from the whipping of the wind. She trotted back to the more sedately proceeding train with colour in her face for the first time in weeks; her veils awry, and feeling much more like the wild young maid who’d climbed out of a turret window with nothing but air beneath her for many hundreds of feet. 

 

 **The Royal Abbey of Fontevrault**.

At last their little company was passing through the great arched gate, the courtyard echoing with the clatter of hooves. Liveried grooms ran out to take their mounts, directing their guards to the men's side; porters carried their modest baggage into the guesthouse, while Lady Maheult dispatched a lay-brother to the sub-prioress to inform her of their arrival.

The women's dorter was luxurious, boasting feather beds rather than the thin straw pallets they’d endured so often on the road. Nor was it crowded, as other dorters had been; fewer than half the wooden frames were made up with mattress and sheets. A peaceful night with all her worries settled would be a blessing after the long journey from the depths of Burgundy.

Caught up in the bustle of arrival, Jehane had barely time to wash hands and face before she found herself at the trestle in the guest hall with fresh herb pottage, bread and a delicate sheep’s milk cheese in front of her. Yet anticipation rid her of appetite; the remains of the simple meal were being cleared away as a silent, black-veiled sister appeared at the door, beckoning them to follow her to the crypt to kneel in prayer - Maheult at the tomb of her mother who had lain here these thirty years, and Jehane at the graveside of the lady Alix, Countess of Vézelay.

Tears seeped unbidden from the corners of her eyes as she approached the mortal remains of her childhood friend. Where are you now, my Lys? she thought. What were you thinking of to leave me all alone in this world? And what was in your heart when you encountered this English knight, this Guy of Gisborne? Could you really have changed so much that you favoured him when you swore you’d never lay yourself open to the demands of a mortal man again?

Yet did not everyone change? She was no longer the giddy young girl who climbed out of turret windows; nor was she the new bride, so deliciously surprised by the pleasures of the marriage bed that she blinded herself to the faults of her husband for far too long.

But these were unseemly thoughts for such solemn surroundings, and she turned to her prayers.

“My ladies?”

A quiet voice brought both mourners to their feet. Hands hidden in the folds of her robes, the Abbess Mathilde glided towards them, an older nun hobbling painfully in her wake.

“My lady Maheult? Welcome! I bring you Sister Agathe, whom you know, I think? She tells me she took the veil at the same time as your mother, and it is ever her joy to remember her with you.” The abbess turned to Jehane, a smile lighting her face. “My lady, you too are welcome here. You have come to pray for the soul of the Countess of Vézelay; a dear friend since girlhood, I believe? She is always in our prayers,” she went on at Jehane’s wordless nod. “I was not here at the time of her passing, nor was she with our community long, alas, but she was a great lady, I am told; a grievous loss to the Duchess Eleanor when she left this world, and a great sorrow to all.”

Jehane swallowed, overcome with emotion at such testimony from this holy woman. “I thank you, Mother,” she said huskily, when she was able to speak. “It comforts me to know she is remembered with all honour and affection here.” Suddenly her breath threatened to fail her, and she drew in a great gulp of air before she could go on again. “I realise it is a great imposition, but would the Duchess spare me a few moments for an audience? The Countess’ death has left me with many troubling questions, and I’d hoped…”

“You hoped that she could provide you with your answers, since she was with her at the end?” A slender hand emerged from a wide black sleeve and touched Jehane lightly on her arm. The face in its snowy coif was composed, but the voice was gentle as the abbess spoke again. “Alas, my dear, I fear that will not be possible.”

For half a heartbeat, Jehane’s courage faltered at this unforeseen setback; then she set her shoulders and straightened her spine. She had not come this far to be put off so easily. “I shall only need the merest few moments,” she insisted. “Or I can write my questions down for her if she prefers to remain in seclusion from the outside world.”

The nun touched her sleeve again and shook her head, the faintest scent of good white soap emanating from her fiercely-starched veils. “The Duchess of Aquitaine will never sever her ties with the outside world as long as she lives. No, my child. You do not understand. She is not here, nor has been for some time. She left us at Eastertide to journey to the Lord Richard, who lay ill at Chinon. From there, other matters called her on; we have yet to receive intelligence of her return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Abbess Mathilde in this chapter is the successor to the one we met in **A Powder of Yarrow,** though she bears the same name. Her predecessor passed away some time in the previous year - shortly after the Countess, we might surmise for the purposes of this fic.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-one.**

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

It had become a source of innocent pleasure for Gisborne to ride up to the bluff and watch the labours of the wine merchant and his men.

“Tell Guiscard to let matters rest for now,” he’d ordered, on that morning several weeks ago when the steward arrived on his doorstep, bright and early and prepared to ride into Avallon again. “If Master Laurent Martin is on fire for a bit of building work, I don’t think we should stand in his way.”

The retainer’s eyes had lit up, his lips curving in a slow smile. “So the lady Jehane would return to a model village and fine new manor house. A generous thought when she has been less than accommodating to you, Messire, and a gesture worthy of..."

... _my late lady..._

Gisborne had snorted in derision before Reynault could complete the damning phrase. “Generous, my backside. I need those disruptive tenants of hers off my land.”

Nevertheless, he would be almost sorry when the work was done, he acknowledged at the time; the longer it took, the greater the strain on Master Martin’s purse. With the force of the law to fall back on at a time of his own choosing, he'd put up with a little unrest among his own villagers if it meant taking the self-satisfied little bastard down a peg or two.

He was riding past the manor gates one day, ostensibly on his way to somewhere else, when a laden cart came swaying up the lane, its wheels juddering on the hardened ruts. He dismounted to deal with a non-existent stone in the stallion's shoe, watching surreptitiously as furniture was unloaded; all ponderous dark oak and elaborately carved. This was followed by rolls of heavy brocade curtaining in black and gold, along with gloomy wall-hangings and lofty wrought-iron candle-stands.

Gisborne winced. This was all a little too reminiscent of his former master’s tastes; all it lacked was the cages of hapless birds. Then he permitted himself a crooked half-smile. Living with the décor of a high-class brothel cum torture chamber would be just deserts for my lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin, after the way she’d hounded him.

Next morning, Reynault was riding to Avallon to seek a further interview with _Maistre_ Guiscard.

 

 **The River Loire**.

The journey down to Fontevrault had seemed to go on for ever. Now the wind was with them, the banks speeding by in a blur of ever-changing scenery, yet somehow the return was taking twice as long. Aubrey was constantly on the point of exploding with boredom. Eager chatter and an occasional whoop of triumph indicated that Thierry was managing to keep himself out of trouble for once, engrossed in a game of tables with a couple of pages from the Lady Maheult’s retinue; the noise mounted with their excitement as they moved the counters across the board. These childish antics were a further cross to bear, while day after day Maman sat in the waist of the scudding _gabarre_ ; a still, silent figure under the bellying sail, gazing in front of her with a cold, flat stare.

Two interminable weeks had dragged by at the abbey while the lady Maheult completed her customary novena for her mother's soul. Maman too had knelt in the crypt for hours, praying at the tomb of her friend; at other times, she'd walked in the garth by special dispensation of Mother Mathilde, pacing, always pacing, until all her verve and colour leaked from the soles of her restless feet.

Preparations for departure had taken another age, but eventually the coffers were packed, the horses saddled and the time to leave had come. “It was not God’s will that you should be given your answers here,” the nun had murmured, with a gentle touch on Maman’s arm. "Through His mercy, may they find you soon and set your soul at rest."

Aubrey squatted in the stern of the barge, chin in hand, fighting back the twinges of apprehension that were becoming far too familiar for comfort of late. Was this another feature of growing up - discovering your mother was not the strong, all-powerful being you'd thought she was? She'd set so much store by the interview with the Duchess of Aquitaine. now she was sagging like a bolster after Berthe had beaten it too energetically with a stick.

“Your mother is tired, that is all,” came the kindly tirewoman’s voice. ”She will recover her spirits when you are nearer home, you wait and see.”

Aubrey shrugged, unconvinced, reckoning to be adult enough already to recognise a fobbing-off when it presented itself. Coming home would mean they'd be back where they started from, in every sense of the words.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane sat straight in the saddle as they retrieved the horses and wagon at La Charité; a new determination suffused her blood, as the lady Maheult had foreseen.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Somehow she would contrive to travel to Paris and present her petition to the Parlement; after all, a journey to Fontevrault had seemed no less impossible before. And if the Parlement would not help, surely someone in the great royal palace on the _Īle de la Cité_ would know where the elusive Duchess of Aquitaine was to be found?

Finally Vézelay and Avallon were behind them, their once-verdant hills burnt to umber in the summer heat. The sun had begun its slow slide towards the horizon, the smells of baked earth and scorched vegetation tempered by the first stir of an evening breeze. Jehane reined in her gelding and addressed her companion with a smile. “You and your men will be most welcome to lie at Vignoles tonight, my lady, though the fare will be rough and you will have not forgotten the quality of the accommodation, I fear. But there is room and bedding for you, and the weather is fine, if your guards are content with a blanket or two under the wagon, for I dare not vouch for the safety of the outbuildings.”

Maheult smiled her warm smile in return. “It will be a welcome change from all those straw palliasses in dank and chilly guest houses,” she said. “And if there is bread to toast at the fire and good country cheese, we shall dine admirably.”

All were weary, the talk subdued as they turned into the lane that led to the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon. Yet despite her aching bones from the long hours in the saddle, Jehane’s spirits took wing, and she put her heels to her horse's flanks. The welcoming embrace of home beckoned, and with it, the renewal of hope.

Shadows were spreading, blurring lines and boundaries. It was not until the gates were before her that she knew with a sudden sharp jolt that they had somehow lost their way. It was either that or she had fallen asleep as she rode and her soul had wandered into the land of evil dreams. For instead of the familiar age-silvered timbers hanging drunkenly ajar, stout oak rails and a heavy iron padlock barred their way.

A glimpse through the unseasoned slats revealed a more disturbing sight. The outbuildings were not her outbuildings; nor was the house the house she’d left behind, settling comfortably into decrepitude. Solid sheds and stables stood in the place of her rickety barns, while the mansion had transformed itself into a larger, foursquare construction of freshly-hewn stone. One of the new chimneys stuck up like a sore finger at one end, while an ornamental tower marked the other, crenellated like a castle in a marchepane subtlety.

Jehane clutched at her reins, white-faced and speechless with shock. Maheult nodded grimly, the angle of her brows reflecting her own surprise. “Someone has been busy, my dear, while you were gone.”

Nor did Jehane need telling who that someone was. The _routier_ , that thieving, conniving Gisborne, God damn him to the bottommost circles of hell! It wasn't enough for him to steal Lys’ cherished manor, he’d helped himself to hers as well! Fuming, she edged her gelding closer, peering into the yard again. All was dark and silent, telling her they still had surprise on their side. She beckoned to one of their men at arms, unlocking her clenched jaw so she could speak. “Fetch an axe,” she said, “And get that padlock down.”

But to the surprise of all, the heavy fitment swung from its hasp at the merest brush of the blade. The guard ran over and held it up, the serrated edges showing it had been attacked before, then fitted together and left as it was. Even so, the metallic ring of the blow had been loud enough to have roused the house, and yet all was eerily silent; no voices raised, no sudden glow from the windows as they rode in, hooves and wagon wheels crunching on thickly strewn layers of small white stones.

The front door was unlocked, swinging open soundlessly on an interior that was dark and dank. The smells of raw wood and fresh plaster mingled with the acrid reek of dye from new cloth and the heavy odours of beeswax and terebinth oil.

There was no sign of occupation, past or present; no pots in the kitchen, no food in the pantry. The house was deserted, and so were the outbuildings, as a rapid search revealed. Where was everybody? Where were the milch cow and the chickens? Where was Flopears, and where was Blancheflor? Had that man robbed her of every last thing she owned?

Jehane’s heart climbed her throat as she fought her panic down. How could she have failed to see this coming? She should never have left Ernoul in charge; he was too old to fulfil a steward’s duties on his own, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his pride by asking Maheult to leave one of her men behind. In her eagerness for Fontevrault and her answers, she’d neglected to think everything through.

“I must send to the village,” she said, as candles were brought from the wagons and Maheult continued to examine the new hall. Even the furnishings had been replaced;  carved and whorled monstrosities loomed at them from the dark. “My tenants will know what’s been happening here.”

But the two guards were back before the candles had begun to drip wax on their tortured iron stands.

“No one there, my lady,’ said the raw-boned sergeant, removing a mailed glove to scratch at his nose. “Nice little place,” his second added gruffly. “All neat and new, but neither beast nor living soul in sight.”

Thoughts racing, Jehane sat down heavily on the overstuffed cushions of a settle, deaf to the shouts of the children who had taken up tapers and were investigating the upper floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly down below.

“It's as bare as the kitchen up there," remarked the ever practical Maheult, descending the stairs after her own brisk inventory. “Testers and coverlets only, no sheets on the beds. But there is food and wine and bedlinen a-plenty in the wagon, and we are all in sore need of rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough for anything more.”

But Jehane shook her head, a grimace contorting her lips. “I could not sleep," she said. “I have my villagers to think of as well as myself.” Not to mention her beloved pregnant mare, and her precious livestock without which she could not feed her family. “I beg you, my lady. Give me half the men. I must ride out immediately and confront the man who did this before even more damage is done.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-two.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

It was late, and Gisborne was in his bath.

He’d felt few adverse effects from his exertions last night, but as the new day advanced, his scrapes and bruises had begun to nag at him and his limbs had stiffened by the hour, so he was soaking it all out in the steam. His scars had loosened considerably over the weeks  but the brief skirmish with Osmond de Bèze and his men and a few practice sessions with his sword had been no substitute for a pitched battle. He should have set aside more time each day to exercise, as he was learning now to his cost. Yet he had no real complaints; he’d missed the thrill of strenuous activity, the exhilaration of breath snatched greedily while the blood thundered through his veins.

 _Maistre_ Guiscard had made his promised enquires at Dijon, returning with a notice to cease and desist in the matter of Vignoles under pain of forfeiture,  drawn up by his contact in the duke’s chancery. He’d attempted to present it at the door of the crimson carbuncle of a tent, but without initial success; their master was away about his lawful business, or so a hard-bitten hulk of a guard had alleged, though there had been voices inside.

A plea of kinship and urgent family business had brought better results; Martin himself had emerged at length and read the document with smiling disbelief, clapping his cousin-by-marriage on the shoulder and denying malicious intent.

“Nothing will be done outside the law, or so Guiscard was told,” the steward had reported on his return from his latest visit to Avallon. “It appears Martin has the blessing of the Count of Auxerre, who is his patron; the official application for change of tenure will be made to Dijon as soon as his affianced bride returns.”

In other words, money talks...

Gisborne eased his long limbs with a soft groan, acknowledging that he’d have been disappointed if the merchant had upped and left of his own accord, despite the resultant aches and pains. He was reaching for the hot water jug a when an unholy racket assaulted his ears; someone was battering at his door downstairs. Well, they would just have to wait until morning, whoever they were. 

The tub topped up, he leaned back in its welcome heat, closing his eyes and reliving the events of the previous day. It had still been half-dark when he'd set out for Vignoles, Reynault and the able-bodied men from both manors following behind. The main force was to approach through the village where the bulk of the invaders slept; a smaller contingent peeled off to circle round by the lane and lie in wait near the entrance to the stable yard, blocking escape from there.

All were silent as ghosts in the morning mist - until one brainless oaf had lost them the element of surprise. Youthful enthusiasm, over-excitement, lack of anything tangible between the ears... Something had driven him to break cover and hack at the gate; the metallic ring of his axe-blows reached them as they emerged from the stand of trees and neared the village green.

At once men poured from the tents and makeshift shelters like ants disturbed from their nest. Few had been seasoned warriors; Gisborne’s reconnoiters had shown him that the man from Auxerre was confident enough of his safety in this sleepy backwater to discount the necessity for more than a half-dozen armed guards. Yet the masons, the carpenters and the rest of the crew were artisans hardened by a life of heavy physical toil, and with the hammers and mallets and other tools of their trade ready to hand. All things considered, the merchant’s men had made up the superior force.

Added to which, they'd had an intimate knowledge of a settlement they'd built themselves, and street warfare was a dirty business at the best of times. Too many fronts, precluding a coordinated attack; too many opportunities for ambush and too many pockets of resistance to winkle out. Gisborne knew he'd need to be in several place at once to have a hope of whipping his own untried rabble into shape.

Sighing, he’d slipped from the stallion’s back and waded in. It had been brute force against the skill of a trained swordsman and it had gone well for him at first, a trail of dazed and injured left in his wake as he fought his way over to his steward, who’d been holding his own with a long handled scythe.

“Reynault! Take some men with you and work your way round to the rear,” he'd ordered, as the retainer leaned on the stave to catch his breath. “Some of Martin's lot will be coming up from the direction of the house, trying to escape this way. Deal with them before they can go to ground in the cottages and alleyways here; then join up with our men in the lane and we’ll come at them hard from both sides.”

And then it had been slash and parry and feint and dodge like an automaton from a Saracen tale. Rounding the next corner, directing the next cluster of villagers against the next little knot of Martin's men; into the next cottage, eyes and ears strained for signs of life in the limewash-smelling dark, before clearing the place out and moving on to do it all over again.

The last of the resistance had been melting away across the fields as Gisborne stooped to wipe his bloodied blade on a clump of grass. A job well done, he’d told himself, though his sword arm burned in its socket and his spine and belly and shoulders were one great quivering ache. He’d been looking forward to this ever since the smug merchant and his men rode in. Longer, if he were honest with himself; he’d taken an instant dislike to the strutting little rooster at the inn of the _Escusson de Bourgogne_.

He'd frowned, scanning the countryside as he absently knuckled a trickle of blood from under his nose. Where was Martin himself? The merchant had been conspicuous by his absence all day. Reynault sucked in his cheeks when asked, and shook his head. “I took the liberty of leaving a few lads to keep an eye on the house and yard, Messire.” The steward had been short of breath, but he was grinning too. “No sign of movement from there, they tell me, though his fancy tent has disappeared; piecemeal, the word is, into a few shirts and pouches and soon to grace a good many cottages, I’ll be bound. If Master Martin is anywhere still, he can only be holed up inside the house.”

And so it had proved; a resourceful urchin came running over to tell them the news. An inquisitive young eye to a knothole had revealed the wine merchant’s sorrel still in the barn.

“Bring it here, lad. Quietly.” Gisborne had directed his assembled men to surround the house. “Wait till I flush the bastard out; but don’t interfere, any of you, do you hear?” He'd handed the bridle to Reynault. “Act as if you’re caught off-guard; let him get within a few yards of you, then give the beast a good slap on the rear.”

Then he’d kicked the door open with as much noise as he could, sending panicked footsteps skipping up the stairs. A moment’s pause for caution told him that he’d meet no further resistance. Martin had been alone all right; his operatives had decamped earlier to join the fight.

The open privy door and a torn scrap of russet in the window-frame had betrayed the wine merchant’s route of escape. Down in the yard, all transpired as planned; the merchant had been stumbling off across the fields, cursing and calling after his fleeing mount by the time Gisborne completed a final check for insurgents and come back outside. 

He was grinning to himself at the memory as he rinsed the last suds from his hair.  Then his expression darkened. Whoever had declared war on his front door had not given up and gone away. On the contrary, the blows had redoubled, rattling the stout oaken panel on its hasps.

Christ on the cross!

Gisborne stewed for a few moments more, reluctant to leave the steaming comfort of his bath. Was Master Martin back already with his motley band? Hadn’t they had enough when they’d gone haring across the fields with their tails between their legs?

Apparently not.

Wrapping a linen bath sheet round his waist, he unhooked his sword-belt from a chair back and drew the blade; then he headed down the stairs, dripping water as he went. His head whipped round when a sudden click came from the direction of the kitchen, followed by an emphatic slam. The back door? The blonde wench with aspirations had stayed behind to see the bathtub emptied and dried, though she had more sense by now than to have offered to wash his back.

“Are you there, girl?”

There was no answer and no further sound from within the house; she must have heard the commotion and decided to get out while the going was good. As for Reynault, the steward had left soon after serving supper, which meant he was alone for the night; just as he liked, if not the wisest choice in light of recent events. Yet the sheer bloody frustration of being dragged from his bath banished all caution to the winds, propelling him inexorably on.

Reaching the door at last, he dragged it open - and laughed.  A certain small woman stood there on the threshold; a woman with a temper to match the wildfire of her hair. Less amusingly, two solid men at arms were there too, standing a respectful but protective pace behind her.

“So my lady of Vignoles is back,” he said with exaggerated courtesy, relishing her discomfort at being confronted by a half-naked man in a towel. A bead of water dripped from his hair to snake across his chest; he caught her following its progress, her eyes widening involuntarily as it travelled over the crude whorl of scar tissue just above his belly before losing itself in the folds of linen about his waist.

A snort and a chink of harness drew his gaze up and away to the shadowy forms of waiting horses. There were mounted men there, betrayed by the glint of light from the open door on their bridle rings and the heavy hilts of their swords.

“The lady Jehane demands to know what you’ve done with her tenants and her property,” the taller of the two guardsmen said, with an aggressive thrust of his chin.

Gisborne’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the woman who stood before him, her hands on her hips. “You don’t like the new look, then?” He clucked his tongue. “What a shame.”

To his secret enjoyment, her whole body was quivering with rage. “How dare you taunt me? How dare you come onto my lands and…”

There was a tell-tale slither and ring of a half-dozen blades being drawn from their scabbards as she raised her voice, and he reacted swiftly; a long arm shot out, pulling her towards him before the guards could realise his intent. In a heartbeat he had her imprisoned against him, the keen edge of his sword grazing the skin of her exposed throat.

“Shh-shh,” he whispered, his tone low and intimate. “I’ve had enough of you and your temper. Now call off your men and go away.”

But she was as obstinate as ever. “Not until you tell me what you’ve done with my people. Where are they? And where are Blancheflor and the rest of my animals?" She squirmed angrily against him in spite of the blade at her neck, her rounded haunches sending interesting messages to his groin. “Let go of me! Ah! This is beyond all bounds of decency.”

Gisborne pulled her closer and chuckled, deep in his throat. “When I’m confronted at my door in the middle of the night by a gaggle of armed men and a shrew of a woman,” he murmured, his breath disturbing the escaped copper tendrils at her nape, “I’ll use every weapon I have.” The _double entendre_ had been unintended, but it was apt all the same; his body had stirred involuntarily against the curve of her bottom as he spoke, and he smiled to himself as he felt her jolt of shocked surprise.

“Now, my lady,” he purred. “We can either discuss this in a civil manner, or we can not. Just you and me. Alone, over supper, tomorrow. Your choice.”

“You’re mad!” she spat. “How can you think I’d agree to such a proposition…?”

“Like I said,” he interrupted silkily, “Your choice. But in that case, you’d never see that precious mare of yours again.” 

Gisborne mounted the stairs two at a time when they’d gone, shaking his head and grinning widely. He’d almost enjoyed himself just now.

 _My parfit gentil knight_ , goaded the voice in his head as he strode into his chamber, still congratulating himself.

“Shut it,” he snarled, and flung his sword onto the bed, biting back a curse as it clattered to the floor. “You and your tales and your pretty _cansos_. It was you that got me into this mess.”

And as if nagging ghosts were not enough to deflate his buoyant mood, his bath had gone from hot, herb-scented and steaming to scum-topped and stone cold, and a frustrated kick at the tub scraped the skin from his toes. However, the resultant disturbance in the water dislodged the bung, and it gurgled down the waste chute of its own accord.

“Life is cruel,” he quoted back at her with a sneer. “But now and then the dice fall my way.’

That night, the nightingales were silent. He told himself he preferred it like that.

 

 **The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

l.

The journey home had seemed as interminable, the ride from La Charité hot and tiring and no less dispiriting.  Jehane had called on her last reserves of energy as they approached Vignoles, only to be faced with the shocking changes to her manor and the confrontation with her nemesis at Li Rossinholetz. That had been a rash and futile course of action, she could see it now; it had left her burning with humiliation and no wiser than before.

Yet again he’d managed to turn the situation to his advantage, though he’d been half-naked and soaking wet and she’d had the support of armed guards. She stalked up and down in the cavernous room that replaced her old bedchamber, barking her shins on some unfamiliar piece of furniture that lurked in shadowy corners, and berating herself for giving in to his intimidation once more. She was no shrinking flower; a man’s body held no secrets for her. But menace had exuded from him like the steam from his bath, and her own flesh had known it, shutting down all reasoned thought.

Damn and blast him to the bottom of the fiery pit! She should have known better, since he'd done much the same to her before. She could only ascribe her weakness to exhaustion and shock, though she supposed the bared steel at her throat had not helped at all.

Wearily she stripped off her travel-stained clothes, eager for the oblivion of sleep. Yet perversely, sleep would not come; the heavy black and gold brocade tester loomed above her like some malevolent monster waiting to pounce; while the mattress and pillows were so plump and so yielding they threatened to drown her in their cloying embrace. She could not even toss and turn; her body only sank deeper into the down, pinning her there with her arms clamped to her sides.

She felt drunk with tiredness, yet the thoughts continued to roll round inside her head like barrels on a cellar floor. Her mansion was gone; razed and replaced by this monstrosity. Everything about it was costly and luxurious in the most unpleasant and ostentatious way, making her yearn for the shabby familiarity of her own home and her own bed with a visceral intensity. Her village and her tenants were gone too, she knew not where nor why; her very future was lost to her, stolen by a bully and a blackguard, a shiftless _routier_ who knew no law but his own.

Gooseflesh crawled across her skin despite the heat of the summer night and the slow suffocation of her prison of over-soft down. That arrogant stance on his doorstep, straight from his bath; the stray drop of water working its way down his chest with hypnotic slowness… The image had burned itself into her eyelids, and there was no escape from it, however much she tried to rub it away. A gnarled scar had marred his abdomen above the sheet that girded his hips, red and angry and so deep she could almost have put her fist in it; while a lesser disfigurement climbed his right forearm like a writhing knot of snakes, both of them eloquent testimony to the kind of life he led.

Alone in the dark, she blushed hotly, remembering the brute strength of that arm as he’d seized her, and the scour of his breath on her neck as his body moved against hers. A cry of impotent rage escaped her as she acknowledged the fact that it was she who’d aroused him; she'd as good as rubbed herself against him in her struggles to escape.

And he'd known it! She could picture his mocking smile across the supper table on the morrow, and she wondered how she was going to summon the strength to face him down, let alone assert her rights and demand the answers she needed from him. The slightest loss of composure would be added enjoyment for him.

Trembling with frustration, she extricated herself from the mattress’s stifling clutch and swung her legs to the floor, kicking the superfluous bedside sheepskins aside and welcoming the cool of stone beneath her feet. Beyond the chamber, the house was silent as the grave, save for the intermittent creak of unseasoned rafters above; it seemed everyone else had left this world and these new and alien surroundings behind, escaping their cares in the blessing of sleep.

Back and forth she paced on the cold flags, but to no avail; her face and body burned. The chamber was close and airless, shut up for too long throughout these July days; the residual heat from the roof-space weighed down on her like the heavy brocade that draped window and bed.

She looked for a jug of water on the washstand to cool her skin. Inevitably, the chaos of arrival had caused such details to be forgotten and she went to fling open the shutters instead, gulping in long grateful gasps of night air. The moon was the meanest paring from a silver coin, while the stars stared down on her with uncaring pin-prick eyes. In the morning Maheult and her train would be on the move again, her leave of absence over; with no Duchess in residence to direct affairs, her workload would have doubled  and the backlog would be waiting for her. Jehane would be left to swallow the dish of bitter herbs the _routier_ had cooked up for her alone.

Should she cast aside her pride, throwing herself on the kindly tirewoman’s mercy and beg to travel with her as far as Dijon? From there she could strike out north to Paris to pursue her claim. In the dark of the night hours, the king’s Parlement seemed a more slender hope than ever, but one she could not discount.

 _For the children’s sake_ …

Her heart lurched as cold reality struck. To leave now would be to abandon Vignoles and her tenants to a man who was as cruel and cunning as a rogue wolf ousted from its pack. Not content with Li Rossinholetz, he’d made use of her absence to consolidate his power, reconfiguring her home and her village to suit his ends and driving her tenants away to God knew where.

Then there was Blancheflor; a minor consideration perhaps within the enormity of everything else, but it caught at her heart nonetheless. He’d use her beloved horse as he’d use both estates; an asset to be bled dry to serve his greed. She’d be nothing more than a brood mare, constantly in foal to that black devil of a stallion of his until her exhausted body gave out…

 

She started as a painful cramp in a forearm roused her from fitful sleep. She must have been kneeling at the window for half the night, her elbows on the sill. Slowly she became aware that it was not just bodily discomfort that had wakened her; an insistent tapping was coming from downstairs.

“M’lady!” stammered a flustered voice when Jehane had located the kitchen in the unfamiliar layout and opened the door. Berthe was breathless, her round cheeks glowing red as ripe apples in her excitement. “Oh, you’re here at last, mum! I couldn’t rightly believe it when Ham said he’d seen you ride in last night.” She enveloped her mistress in her arms, joy pushing her over the bounds of propriety; then she realised how much she’d forgotten herself and stepped back with a sheepish little bob.

Jehane pulled her back into the embrace and kissed the damp cheek, her heart brimming. Here was someone who had escaped the purge at least. “Berthe! Where have you been? Where is everyone else?”

The serving girl snorted disparagingly. “Over to Rossy-nolls,” she said, as always her Burgundian tongue stumbling on the Occitàn word. She was knocking off her clogs against the step as she spoke, the familiar sound oddly comforting in this sea of strangenesses. “Most of ‘em’s up seeing to his vines today, mum, though of a Sunday he lets ‘em come down to ours.”

Jehane compressed her lips at this intelligence. Of a Sunday? How generous of him. “So what has happened?” she said aloud, indicating the sterile new kitchen and everything else. “What in the name of all the saints has been going on while I’ve been away?”

Berthe snorted again and dumped a small kerchief-wrapped bundle on the trestle. “Bit o’ something for the childer to break their fasts on,” she indicated, retying her headcloth more firmly. She turned indignant brown eyes upon her mistress. “They’ve ate up your cow and chickens, mum. Ourn too, up at the village. not there's no village there any more. This is a bit o' cheese Peronete let me have. She's a dear soul, mum, but her cheeses are not as good as ourn was, mark you!"

Jehane’s mouth opened and shut at such gall. “They?” she asked, though the answer was plain enough to her.

“Men!” was the disgruntled but cryptic reply. “Men rode in, mum, some time after you was gone. Fair set the roofs tumbling about our ears, they did, so we grabs what we could carry and heads over to Rossy-nolls.” She went over to the hearth and poked about among an array of pot-hooks and firedogs. “And not a decent cook-pot here for the children’s pottage,” she sniffed.

“But why Li Rossinholetz, when…?”

“Well… Haven’t the most of us got fam’ly there?” Berthe put in. “We wasn’t about to go roaming the roads now, was we?”

“I’m surprised he let them take you in, after he’d thrown you out and seized Vignoles for himself.”

The country girl hobbled back across the flags to the trestle, still muttering. “Threw out my Yule-tide slippers, didn’t they?” she grumbled. “That black divvil, mum?” She shrugged. “ I don’t rightly know. Some fellow came here on a fancy sorrel horse.”

But then the children came clattering down, chattering excitedly. They made a thorough investigation of the new downstairs rooms before appearing at the kitchen door, and any opportunity for further enlightenment was lost in the flurry of exclamations and hugs and kisses; the barrage of questions and tall traveller’s tales.

 **ll**. 

Jehane stood in the bed-chamber, cooler at last after a day-long airing.

A pang had run through her as she exchanged goodbyes with the lady Maheult and watched the tirewoman ride out with her guards. A part of her still yearned to be on the road herself, her spirits bolstered by hopes of success in Paris. Yet there was no denying that as matters stood, Vignoles must be her priority; she dare not leave her responsibilities to the doubtful mercy of that man.

Frowning, she shook out her grey wool gown before hanging it on the clothing pole in the hope that steam from the bath would soften the worst of the creases. Berthe had sponged the travel stains from it; with the new cream silk wimple Maheult had pressed on her, it would have to do.

Ham had slunk in towards noon, and he and the serving girl had unearthed an old grape-treading vat which they man-handled up the stairs. Now it was full of warm water, sweetened by a handful of fresh herbs salvaged from what remained of the kitchen garden.  For days now she’d been painfully that her scalp itched and her hair hung greasy and lank. It was thick and dried slowly; but what would matter if it was still damp under her veils? She was hardly aiming for glamour tonight.  
   
The same was true of her clothes. The grey wool was frayed round the hem and thinning under the arms but it did not trouble her one jot. So why was it her best chemise with the white-work stitching at neck and hem that awaited her on that dark oak contraption that looked more like an instrument of torture than a chair? Half in a dream, she shed her shift and stepped into the tub.

Suddenly, she was running a wet hand over her eyes as she acknowledged  where her unconscious thoughts had been leading at last. Holy Mother, how could the prospect of being ravished be less disturbing than the fear that he‘d be repulsed by the rank state of her person or the quality of her underwear? Pride was a poisoned chalice indeed.

She was braiding her hair, still debating the wisdom of confronting the man, alone this time and on his own ground, when Berthe came puffing up the stairs to say that the children had eaten their supper and Ham had curried the grey gelding Maheult had insisted on leaving as a parting gift. The girl avoided her gaze as she spoke, leaving Jehane achingly aware of the folly of what she was about to do.

Fool me once, shame on you…

And he'd fooled her several times already.  All the same, he held her tenants, as he held Blancheflor; what other choice did she have?

In the end the decision was taken out of her hands; hooves crunched on the newly-laid gravel, followed by a rap at the door, and Berthe’s brown eyes met hers in alarm.

But it was Master Reynault who stood on the doorstep. “My lady Jehane.” He acknowledged her with a respectful nod. “My lord awaits the pleasure of your company at Li Rossinholetz, and I am ordered to escort you there.”

 _Come on, Jeh’net! You can do it_ , whispered a voice in her head, urging her on as it had urged her from that tower window in Ghent.

And whose fault is it that I have to do so? Jehane thought, miserably. I‘d give anything to know it was nothing to do with you.

Then she collected herself, finding a mannerly smile from somewhere as she walked to her waiting mount. A boost to the saddle and they were off, Berthe’s concerned gaze boring into her back as they rode out of the gate and into the lane.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne suppressed a smile as the mare nuzzled insistently at his cheek.

She’d whinnied a greeting the instant she heard his booted foot-fall on the stable straw, expecting the bread crusts she preferred over the stallion’s favoured apples. Cupboard love, his mother had called it… He grimaced, his jaw tautening; as always, a memory from that more innocent age brought with it a fleeting stab of pain.

“You’re such a tart,” he breathed, watching the melting, long-lashed eyes flutter shut in ecstasy as he caressed the soft muzzle and pricked ears. ”If only your shrew of a mistress was half as easy as you.” Grinning to himself, he turned on his heel to make for the house.

_**CRACK!** _

His head jerked back, his ears ringing. When his eyes had stopped watering, he found the shrew of a mistress standing there, an arm drawn back for a second blow. He seized her wrist before she could strike again, the mark of her fingers still etched in fire on his flesh. “Not your best move,” he murmured, and he clucked his tongue reprovingly. “Not if you want me favourably disposed to you." l

The Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin uttered a wordless exclamation and shook him off, stalking past him to go to her mare. Gisborne leaned a hip against the side of the stall, watching their mutual joy in the reunion.

At length the woman turned to him,  gesturing him aside. Indignation flashed from her eyes as he went to remove her hand from her horse’s reins. “I came here as you asked,” she said tightly. “Now give her back to me and allow me to leave.”

He shrugged and slouched against the partition again, blocking her exit with his long legs. “I said you could _see_ her. I don’t remember promising anything else. Your side of the bargain was that we would eat supper together.” He straightened and signaled for her to precede him with a mocking bow. “The food awaits us at the house.”

He'd promised himself to keep a curb on his temper; to take his pleasure from baiting her, and already she was getting under his skin. Yet he had to admire her icy composure as she crossed the yard before him, her head held high and her spine as straight as a lance. Only the clenched fists at her sides betrayed her emotion, the urge to scream and shout and beat at him with her fists clearly warring with the primal instinct to flee. For Reynault had been ordered to make himself scarce as soon as he'd escorted her there, and there were other concerns for a woman than the welfare of a horse when dining alone with a man as dusk was deepening into night.

Stepping inside, she entered the main hall boldly, gathering her grey wool skirts to take her seat, though the mellow glow of beeswax candles picked out features that were pale and set in their frame of cream silk as she watched him pour the wine. She started when the steward’s silent figure appeared at her shoulder, betraying just how tightly strung she was; yet she appeared to relax as the steward served them with the roast fowl, clearly relieved that she was not alone with this desperate character after all.

Little did she know...

The retainer’s face had been studiously bland when he’d been instructed to return to his cottage after he’d brought in the food. “My lady and she were very close, Messire,” he demurred. “She does have..." He paused and corrected himself. “She _believes_ she has a grievance.”

“What of it?” Gisborne had barked. “Your lady decided otherwise. As I hope you remember.”

Once again he’d surprised himself at the rip-tide of possessiveness that rolled over him with each new challenge to his claim. He hardly recognised himself in that aimless drifter who’d wandered with such numb indifference onto these lands. Somehow this small and tidy manor had worked itself into his blood; it was the nearest thing to a home he’d known since he could remember, and he’d be damned if he’d let go of it.

No, never again, not after Locksley. Not for anyone

He eyed his opponent up and down as she sat across the trestle from him, tearing disdainfully at a piece of manchet bread with her fingertips. A husband was exactly what she needed, he decided now. Not that smug streak of pond-slime, Master Laurent Martin of course, but someone who knew how to blunt the edges of her temper and keep her too busy with her wifely duties to meddle in his, Gisborne’s, affairs. Someone with the sense to content himself with what he had, with no thought for what didn’t belong to him.

Perhaps Mélis would have recommendations for the post.

He glanced at the primly composed features again and toyed with the idea of picking up a well-browned chicken thigh and gnawing at it suggestively while he watched her with burning, hungry eyes. Then he discarded the notion as petty even for him. Yet his expression must have revealed something of his thoughts, for she folded her lips and set her eating knife down carefully on her plate.

“I presume you’re finding it amusing to feed me one of my own birds,” she said.

“You know them by the taste?” He picked up his goblet and sipped at it slowly, dragging out the suspense.

She shook her head, her veils like restless wings. “I know you’ve destroyed my home and put up a monstrosity in its place,” she snapped. “And then you made off with my tenants and my mare and everything else I possess.”

“No.”

Her lips curled back from her small white teeth in contempt. “No? What kind of answer is that?”

Gisborne shrugged, the soft black leather of his new jerkin accommodating itself easily to his shoulders. It had arrived recently together with the breeches, sleek and elegant, and it was good to have this part of his old self back again, his sole regret that by day it was a little too hot for comfortable wear. “Talk to that old headman of yours,” he said. “He came to me himself with your precious Blancheflor and the rest of your Vignoles rabble. As for the tasteful renovation of your property,” he added with a narrow, lop-sided smile, “Your... gratitude is misplaced. You owe that pleasure to your affianced husband; I expect he thought a bit of meat to feed his men was fair exchange for his labour and expense.”

The grey-green eyes widened; then they narrowed in suspicion. “Affianced husband? I have no affianced husband.”

Gisborne pursed his lips and looked her up and down again. “I’m not surprised. You squawk like a Barfleur fishwife. Doesn’t a Master Laurent Martin, respected wine merchant of Auxerre mean anything to you? Cousin by marriage to the _prévost_ of Avallon… Or so he insists on telling everyone.”

Lazily, he unfolded his long length from his chair, pleased to have his suspicions about the man confirmed by her obvious surprise. She’d have something else to bitch about now instead of harassing him, he told himself, as he prowled round to her side of the trestle. Once there, he leaned over to plant his hands either side of her on the linen-draped board, though to her credit, she hardly flinched. “So, my lady,” he murmured, his lips at her ear. “The deal is this. Any complaints you have on the subject, you must take them up with him.” He leaned in closer till he could smell the soap and herbs from her bath on her, wanting to feel her yield; but still she sat on, as stiff and cold as stone. “Meanwhile, this ends here,” he said at last through gritted teeth. “The lady Alix willed this manor to _**ME**_.”

“What were you to her?” she hissed, sudden as a striking snake. “And she to you, that she should feel the need to favour you?”

But he laid his hands on her shoulders, preventing her from turning to search his face. A long silence drew out before he found an answer. “That’s for me to know.” Was it a rare twinge of discretion that pricked at him each time this question was asked - some vestige of finer feeling? In truth, he had little idea of her motives himself; he only knew he would cling onto this unexpected legacy with all the strength he possessed. “You say she was your friend,” he said at last. “Respect her wishes. Li Rossinholetz is mine. It will stay mine, and there’ll be no further discussion on the matter.”

He felt her shoulders lift as she opened her mouth to speak, and he tightened his grasp, stemming her protests at the source. “Go home,” he growled. “Set your own house in order, as I told you before. Then I’ll send you your mare and your people, and if we have to meet in public again, you will nod and smile and keep your fishwife’s mouth SHUT.”

At this he gave her shoulders a none-too-gentle shake and strode back to his own side of the room. “I took in your tenants. Out of the goodness of my heart,” he added with a mocking curve of the lips. “But they’ve given me nothing but trouble in return. To tell you the truth,’ he confided, emptying the last inch from the wine-jug into his cup, “I’ll be glad to see the back of them. Apart from that blonde beauty in the stable, that is; my stallion is very taken with her.”

The lady Jehane made an impatient noise in her throat. “I hear you’ve been taking full advantage of the extra labour.”

“I’ve kept their backs bent and their noses to the ground,” he agreed. “It stopped your young louts and mine from knocking each other’s teeth out over a stolen kerchief and a girl’s tugged braids.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” she said coldly. “Then I shall expect them first thing tomorrow.”

“On Sunday, after mass,” he corrected. “In their own time, not mine.”

She exhaled and nodded curtly, her mouth a tight pink button. “And now, if that is all, I should like to leave.”

“Before the curd tarts and almond wafers?” he taunted. “Made to your own receipt, I’m told. Perhaps I’ll hang on to that kitchen girl of yours - Berthe, was it? - for when I have a lady to entertain.”

The Lady Jehane wiped her mouth on the square of linen provided and threw it down on the trestle. “Sunday,” she repeated, and rose from her seat. “Meanwhile, I have a little reminder for you. Stay away from my manor and my children, or you will live to regret it, I promise you.” Her grey wool skirts swirled about her as she stalked stiff-legged to the door like an affronted cat.

Gisborne scooped up a candle and followed her outside, giving the signal for Reynault to return. It amused him to see the realisation dawn in her eyes that she’d been alone indeed for most of the evening with a man who wished her no good. “He’ll be along to escort you home in a moment,” he told her she went to unhitch her gelding. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your mare?”

“Sunday,” was all she said, as the retainer appeared, leading his chestnut. Soon she was riding sedately down the lane at the steward’s side till they'd rounded the bend.

Gisborne grinned as the sudden thunder of retreating hooves reached his ears.

 

**The Manors of Vignoles and Li Rossinholetz.**

Thierry de Saint Aubin woke early from dreams as troubled as his daytime thoughts had been. It just wasn’t right when you’d wanted to be home for ages, and then at last you were... Only you weren’t, because nothing was the same any more; and no one would spare the time to explain why.

Maman had swept about with _that look_ on her face all day, and she’d spent most of it poking about in corners with Berthe, who was too distracted to be wheedled into finding a hungry boy a treat.

Lifting the unfamiliar-smelling coverlet, he left the bed that was not his bed and opened the door of the chamber that was no longer his room. As he stepped out onto the landing, the new window caught his eye; it was tiny, set unconventionally low in the wall at the top of the stairs, and it fascinated him. Oh, he’d seen this thing called glass before, in Dijon and Fontevrault, but there it had been stained in jewel colours. This one had been a uniform lozenge of midnight blue when he made his mournful journey up to bed; now, miraculously, it had turned to iron grey.

He knelt before it in awe and discovered it was as slick and smooth as the slabs of ice Ham tipped from the horse trough on winter mornings, only not so cold. His tongue probing the corner of his mouth in concentration, he skimmed his palm across it, wondering at the intriguing pits and whorls. And when he leaned close and pressed his nose against it, the yard outside slid and wavered before him like an underwater world.

He could carve his name on it, here in the corner, he thought excitedly; like he’d done in the ice, pretending he was a master mason signing a masterpiece in stone. He tiptoed down to the kitchen to find a knife, but; frustratingly, the point skidded off the surface and he had to brave the stairs again, sneaking down to the yard for a stone to use as a makeshift hammer.

Then just a little tap, and...

Thierry started guiltily at the resounding _crack_!

He looked on helplessly as a fissure snaked its way through the small pane. To his horror it was splintering deep inside, the whole of it turning opaque, just as the ice had done when he'd hit it too hard. Perhaps it would be a good idea not to hang about for breakfast, just this once; indeed it seemed doubtful if he’d dare return at all. Heartstrings thrumming, he stole down the stairs once more and unlatched the kitchen door.

On the threshold he halted, sniffing approvingly, his precarious situation forgotten for now. Everything was cool and fresh at this hour when the summer sun was not completely awake. Suddenly it was wonderful to be free again and out from under Maman’s eye, with his bare toes curling in the dust from his own lane, where every bush and tree was like an old friend to him.

He’d run down to the village and find Ham or one of the others. They would tell him what had happened while he was away, robbing him of his beloved home. But the village he’d known was gone too, the comfortable huddle of cottages replaced by a sterile regiment of little square sheds. All of them were empty, echoing eerily when he opened a door to peek inside, and not a single cow or pig around nor duck or chicken on the green. It was as if he’d never wakened from one of his bad dreams where he’d walked out of a mist and found himself in some strange foreign land.

He stood and watched for a moment, thinking and chewing at his lip. Then it occurred to him that the Knight would know what had happened. Something he’d overheard Maman say made him wonder if the Knight knew too much; but he pushed that unwelcome thought aside and hurried on to Li Rossinholetz, holding his breath until the familiar umber rooftops appeared above the trees. His knees turned weak with relief. Here at least all was as before.

Over the gate he went, giggling a little to himself as his stomach grumbled, loudly protesting its breakfast-less state. First things first, then! The strawberries would be long gone, he thought, with a regretful lick of the lips, but some of the other fruit should be ripe. He’d rounded the corner of the house, making for the orchard when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. He spun round sharply to find himself confronting the Knight himself.

“Going somewhere?” asked the deep, rough voice.

Thierry wiggled his tongue against the gap in his front teeth and stared; but more in awe than fear, for the Knight had changed too, even if his manor had not. Gone were the fraying shirt and rusty black breeches; instead, he was resplendent in finest black chainsil and wool, with a leather jerkin of the kind soldiers wore under their mail. This one was much softer and shinier though, with an impressive array of bright buckles and straps.

Yet his face was reassuringly the same - hawk-like, with black brows knit together over a long nose and eyes shooting blue fire. Thierry had practised the expression in any reflective surface he’d come across and never quite managed to reproduce it to his satisfaction thus far.

So what had happened to first things first?, his stomach reproached as it rumbled again. “I only wondered if there‘s any fruit going spare,” he blurted, hopefully. “Everyone says your peaches are the finest for leagues around. But it’s probably too early for them yet.”

The Knight harrumped. “Have you forgotten that the penalty for stealing is to lose a hand? Where I come from, you could get yourself hanged for less.” He decanted the bulk of his weight onto one hip and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t see your brother,” he said, making a show of looking about him. “Not around to pick up your pieces today?”

Thierry grinned hugely at that, feeling his mouth stretch his dirt-stained cheeks. “Still fast asleep when I left, the slugabed,” he said, swallowing down the giggles again. “And Father Jocelyn was due any time for a lesson... I like your jerkin,” he went on swiftly, changing the subject and dismissing the unwelcome thought of the trouble that awaited him at home. “Where did you get it? Not at Berthelot the tanner’s in Avallon,” he guessed, wrinkling his nose at the memory of the evil-smelling booth with its slabs of coarse ox-hide hanging up outside. “I shall ask Maman for one just like it for my next name-day.”

“A tanned arse is the nearest thing you’ll get from your mother if you skip your lessons,” the man in the coveted black leather jerkin remarked. “A knight who doesn’t know his numbers and his Latin is soon cheated out of what’s his, and he won’t stay a knight for long.”

“Is that how you got your hands on this ma…” Thierry halted in mid-flow as a thunderous look stole over the dark face, and he quickly rephrased the question. “Maman says Li Rossinholetz is hers; but you have parchments with Latin words that say it belongs to you?” The revelation gave him pause; he’d never thought of the hours of tedium with the village priest in quite that light. If this was true, it was sad for Maman, he thought with a pang, but the law was the law, and the Knight was surely too honourable to ride in and take what didn’t belong to him. Besides, they’d be rich enough on their own when the grape harvest was in; Ham was always telling him that.

“Anyway,” he added, brightening. “It’s prepositions that take the ablative today, and I already know those.” Proudly, he began to recite. “ _A, ab, absque, coram, de..._ Pépin – that’s one of the Duchess of Burgundy’s pages - taught me on the way down to Fontevrault.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “Can you imagine being so bored you _wanted_ to do that?”

“Fontevrault?”

“You didn’t know?” Thierry was charmed to be the imparter of important information for once. “We went all the way down the Loire on a boat. It took absolutely forever! I liked it better when we got off and onto the ponies, but still…" He shrugged dismissively. “All because Maman wanted to see some old duchess or queen … I can’t remember her name.”

“Eleanor, was it?” the Knight prompted sharply. Suddenly he was alert, his eyes colder and harder in his hawkish face. “Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

Thierry nodded gloomily. “All that way, and she wasn’t even there!” He let out a heartfelt sigh. “And then Maman wanted to pray at the tomb of her friend. She was the Countess of Vézelay, you know,” he added confidingly “I said a prayer for her too; she was kind and told us stories when Aubrey and I had the _rougeole_ ; about the adventures she and Maman had when they were little girls.”

“Did she indeed?” The question emerged from somewhere deep inside the Knight’s chest.

Thierry nodded again. “They were good stories. But I didn’t really believe them. Girls are too stupid to have adventures, Aubrey says.” He stared wistfully at the impressive jerkin again, as the Knight passed a hand over his mouth and made a choking noise. Grown-ups sometimes had the strangest reactions to the perfectly sensible things he said.

But the thought of grown-ups and their reactions reminded him why he’d played truant that morning. He kicked morosely at a stone; then he winced, for he’d quite forgotten he’d gone without shoes, so long had it been since he’d enjoyed the luxury. “Anyway,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not Father Joscelin that’s the trouble. I broke our new glass window, so I have to stay out of the way till Maman forgets about it. Though Maman never forgets anything,” he reflected, suddenly aware of the flaw in his reasoning, “It’d have been better if I’d just got back into bed and pretended to be fast asleep. Then she'd think it was someone else.”

The Knight reached out, his grip almost painful on the wings of Thierry’s thin shoulders. “I once knew a boy who let someone else take the blame for something he’d done himself,” he said, holding his captive’s gaze. His voice was quiet, but there was a hard glitter in the depths of his eyes.

Thierry swallowed. “Was that you?”

“No.” was the brusque answer. “It was someone who had someone big to hide behind whenever he shot his mouth off like that. You don’t have that luxury; if you go on this way, sooner or later you’ll end up with a knife in your back.”

“What happened to him, that other boy?” For one of the rare times in his young life, Thierry’s happy-go-lucky nature was subdued; even so, he was intrigued by this insight into his hero’s past.

“He destroyed a family.” The Knight’s voice was deep and resonant, yet harsh, like a bass _vielle_ with the bow scraped carelessly across its strings. “He destroyed a manor. He caused a bitter feud that warped lives and brought too many pointless deaths in its wake. And all because he grew up thinking he could do no wrong.” Then he sighed heavily and pushed the despondent boy away. “Remember,” he said gruffly, looking off into the distance. “A knight should always take responsibility for what he does.”

Thierry worked his stinging shoulders, grateful to find himself free of that remorseless grip at last. “Like you,” he breathed, enchanted by the nobility of that last sentiment. It was exactly what one of King Arthur’s knights would have said.

“No.” The curt reply was followed by a narrowing of the lips that was more grimace than smile. “Not like me. I’m not the kind of knight you want to be.”

And that was just what Maman had said to them, but then she would do after that smack on her behind. It wasn’t really the Knight's fault if he’d taken her for a serving girl; serving girls would have laughed and simpered up at him, the way stupid girls often did with men. Then he remembered his other reason for being here. Why was his own Vignoles gone, and a strange substitute in its place?

“Ask your mother,” was the abrupt response. Then the Knight sighed again and relented somewhat. ‘Someone wants to marry her. A merchant from Auxerre. He must have thought it was a good idea at the time.”

At this juncture, Thierry’s stomach chose to wake again, adding its comments to the conversation. Clearly, it didn’t approve of the merchant’s plan either.

The Knight bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. Then he turned on his heel and bellowed impressively in the direction of the house. “Reynault! Get over here!”

“Messire?” The steward arrived at the run.

“Take this young ruffian by the ear,” his master instructed him. “Feed him, then get him home. By the scruff of the neck if you have to, because I want him gone."

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane’s sleep had been no more restful than the night before. Again she’d fought the over-stuffed mattress till the small hours, reliving her encounter with the man who’d prowled her bounds like a malevolent entity from some dark dream.

She’d anticipated a trying experience, and she'd not been wrong. In fact, he’d been insufferable; arrogant and insulting. The heat from his body still lay like an indelible taint on her skin, so closely had he invaded her personal space. A meeker woman might have found this intimidating; for Jehane, it had only served to boil her blood.

Nor did it mollify her one jot that he’d been meticulously groomed, his shoulder-length black hair combed and shining. His _chainsil_ shirt and leather jerkin were new and costly, his breeches of the finest black wool. Somehow this proud array had irked her more than his bedraggled, unwashed self. Though it was preferable to half-naked in a towel, she’d told herself with a grimace and a search of her pillows for a cooler spot.

Now, blessedly, dawn had come. Her eyes felt dry and full of grit as she fought her way up from the depths of the bed. Today she would rid herself of this over-blown luxury along with everything else that offended her gaze. How was she to summon her strength for the future when her very home and hearth were in league against her?

The acrid smell of new cloth wafted towards her nostrils, making her gorge rise as she crossed the chamber to the ornately carved wash stand. Berthe had fashioned a pitcher of sorts from a battered costrel found discarded in a corner of the yard, but the water was thick and oily on her hands as she sluiced her face. Shuddering, she dried herself on a square of linen from her travel coffers, feeling stale and out of sorts. So much to do and so few pairs of hands - until Sunday! She rained down curses on that unbending dark head that no Christian woman should know, much less take into her mouth. The peaceful moments on the journey down the Loire been all too brief; she was well and truly back on the treadmill again.

Yet as she descended the stairs, ready for action in a much-patched undergown with her hair tied up in a cloth, she was aware of a vague feeling that she eventually identified as disappointment. In some perverse way, she’d relished the prospect of taking her disagreeable neighbour to task for the callous destruction of her manor and her home. Now she felt aggrieved, cheated - no, _galled_ would be a better word, that in this respect at least he was free of guilt.

Why, an outside observer might consider he’d acted in her favour by taking in her tenants and driving the invader away. Knowing his character, he probably thought the same.  At this reflection, Jehane almost missed her step. The treads of these new stairs were shallower than the old ones,  and she cursed again, wishing she’d not stopped at single slap across that sneering face. Fishwife, he had called her! She should have shown him the true meaning of the word. A reluctant smile crossed her features as she pictured the scene; kicking at his shins, stamping down hard on a booted foot and following it with a stream of gutter invective and rotting fish.

Childish, she knew, but satisfying;  if only for a fleeting moment, for it seemed the fishwife had other fish to fry. Somehow she’d acquired another high-handed meddler in her affairs;  one Master Laurent Martin, wine merchant of Auxerre, who fancied himself betrothed to her when she’d never so much as set eyes on him. Yet now she came to think of it, the name was not unfamiliar - one of the exhaustive batch of male relatives, she recalled, that Hawise of Flavigny ran on about at times. Was there no man on the make that this interfering woman did not count as family?

Jehane squared her shoulders as the slam of the front door put an end to her deliberations. The patter of bare feet announced the arrival of trouble of another kind. Thierry appeared at the run, dusty and dishevelled as always, but his demeanour so unlike his usual irrepressible self that a cold spike of foreboding dug into her breast. Her concern only increased as he skidded to a halt and bowed gravely to her, his hand on the hip where he wore his imaginary sword.

“It wasn’t who you think it was,” he said quickly, then gasped for breath as if he’d been running for some time.

He looked up at her earnestly as Jehane brushed a lock of hair from her brow, hiding her mystification at this cryptic remark. “If you’re wondering who cracked your new glass window this morning, Maman, it was me,” he confessed, wide-eyed. “I’m late for my lesson, too.” He was clasping his hands politely behind his back by now, though his bare toes curled nervously on the stone flags. “So can you wait till afterwards to tan my hide?”

The glass window? Did they have one? Jehane had been too preoccupied to notice thus far. And tan his hide? Where had he picked up that expression? One of the pages on the journey down to Fontevrault, no doubt. Meanwhile, this unprecedented air of tractability in her tearaway child would have been welcome if it hadn’t been so worrying; not that it would prevent her from making use of it for now.

“Very well,” she replied solemnly. “On condition that you go and get washed and dress yourself decently. With shoes. And tell that lazybones upstairs to hurry up,” she called up after him. “Father Joscelin will be here at any moment.”

But Thierry was back in an instant to stare down at her from at the top of the stairs. “Aubrey’s gone! I didn't see where, because I went out so early... Because of the window, you see.” His small face was serious beyond his years. “That was wrong of me, Maman. A knight always faces up to his responsibilities.”

Before Jehane could begin to ponder the origin of that particular statement, the sound of hooves on the new gravel sent her running to the door, her heart a cold stone in her throat, convinced she would find her firstborn slung over a horse’s withers, gravely injured or worse.

In the event, the newcomer was Tomas, Maistre Guiscard’s gangling clerk; still here but blessedly alone. He advanced towards her with his odd bouncing stride, an ungainly bundle of bones in his long grey tunic and wrinkled hose. "My mistress hears you have returned,” he said, and handed her a small fold of parchment with a bow. “She most earnestly desires your company at the market today.” A wintry smile flickered over his lips and died. “She knows you will have much to buy.”

Jehane slid a nail under the roundel of scarlet wax, wondering why Hawise had bothered to seal the note since the contents were no more and no less than Tomas had said. She’d intended to confront the woman about her cousin and his delusional acts, but with a cool head and all her wits about her; not with a child missing and a house that weighed on her spirits like some soul-eating monster from a Norseman’s tale.

“That won’t be possible today.” Her smile matched the bony clerk’s for oiled insincerity. “If you’ll come inside, I will write your mistress a note.”

She was soon regretting the offer however; in the hotchpotch of half-unpacked coffers, quill and ink proved elusive. Then Thierry reappeared, clean and tidy and ready for his lesson and dumbfounding her still further by disappearing into the kitchen to bring the clerk a beaker of watered wine.

Tomas had not long left, clutching her note of refusal, when Father Joscelin arrived, sweat pearling on his tonsured pate and the hem of his robe thick with dust. He too had to be greeted and settled with a cooling cup before Jehane could spare a thought for her most pressing concern.

There was still no sign of her missing child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that nternet access will be sporadic for me over the next few weeks. I hope to post as usual; but I may be little off-schedule at times!


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-four.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

An itch between Gisborne’s shoulder blades had been warning him for some time now that he was being watched, and by a person less skilled than the faceless men who’d dogged his every move from the streets of Nottingham to the forests of the Morvan.

Eleanor of Aquitaine’s operatives, if that was what they'd been, seemed to have grown bored with spying on him at last; he'd seen no evidence of their intervention since he left the hunting lodge behind. On several occasions he’d toyed with the idea of doing something rash and dangerous to see if that would bring them out of the woodwork. Then he’d decided that to assume their continued interest would be to flatter himself; they'd hardly turned up to nip de Bèze's aspirations in the bud.

Stay away from my manor and my children...

Well, he had no quarrel with that. A pity the harpy next door had failed to get the message across to the children themselves. No sooner had he got rid of one little runt than here was the other one.

A covert glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions. The stable door was open a crack; a prime vantage point for surveillance, if a scuff of boots and the mare’s soft whickers of greeting had not given the game away.

“You can come out now!”

No answer. Gisborne gazed heavenwards and rolled his eyes. He was doing a lot of that these days. Then he strode over and hauled the door ajar. Aubrey de Saint Aubin stood before him, blinking in the light and running a hand through close-cropped sandy locks.

A troubled expression crossed his young face as he gestured in the direction of his brother’s disappearance. “You should have tanned his hide yourself,” he pronounced with a world-weary air. “Serve him right, He never thinks before he opens his mouth." Earnest grey-green eyes squinted up at him. “To be honest, he never thinks at all. Like you said, I can’t always be there to pick up the pieces for him.” The searching gaze turned inward, as if he stared down the years of thankless shepherding to come. Gisborne found himself reflecting that he'd had a taste of that himself, with Isabella, and his solution to the problem hadn’t turned out well at all.

But the youngster had changed the subject already, going back inside to pet the mare. She was nipping at him playfully, delighted with the familiar face and smell. “She looks well,” the urchin said, peering into the liquid eyes and running a practised hand over the glossy hide.

“She should do.” Gisborne’s lips parted in a grim smile. “She thinks she’s the queen of the manor and expects homage accordingly. Untie her if you like; walk her down to the paddock. Her entourage should be here before long.” And indeed, the stallion appeared out of nowhere as they were skirting the house. With an affectionate greeting to the mare and a nod to the humans, the great black horse took up his rightful station at the rear of his herd.

Soon both animals had fallen to grazing in the shade of the trees. Here the grass still grew green and tender, protected from the worst of the summer heat. Tails whisked lazily as the morning warmed and the insects came out to sip at the sweat on their flanks.

“Your mother’s lost that mare,” Gisborne mused, watching the complacent pair as he leaned a hip against the paddock fence. “He’s never going to let her go.” He suppressed a sigh, anticipating the storm to come and at a loss as to how to avert it, short of binding and gagging the witch. It was a rare favour of Fate that the formidable Eleanor of Aquitaine had been absent from the abbey of Fontevrault. God help him if his volatile neighbour had found her there and enlisted her in her cause!

The boy’s eyes had been on the equine couple too. “Don’t you have somebody?” he asked suddenly from his perch on the topmost rail. “A woman, I mean.”

Gisborne groaned inwardly. Not this again! He pantomimed a left and right search of the terrain. “Not that I've noticed,” he remarked, his tone of light mockery intended to cut this line of questioning off at the root.

“I thought you needed one when you were a man."

Li Rossinholetz’s lord chewed at the inside of his cheek, praying for patience, and then wondering why he felt the need to weigh his words. Peasant or highborn, the boy was still an importunate brat.

“The manor does well enough without,” he said eventually, still hoping the feigned misunderstanding would close the subject once and for all. “Quieter, too,” he added, dryly. “I have servants to keep house for me.”

“So what do you do when… You know...” A small hand gestured, awkwardly but eloquently, in the direction of the stallion’s crotch.

Christ on the cross!

The boy had the tenacity of a hunting dog with its teeth in its prey. Gisborne glowered and pushed himself up from his slouch against the fence. “That's enough!” He indicated the gate with an impatient jerk of the chin. “Clear off home. And don’t come back. Your mother doesn’t want you hanging around here any more and neither do I.”

But the wretched child was in no hurry to comply. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his narrow shoulders hunched to his ears. “Maman says it’s not polite to ask personal questions. But I’ll be grown up soon, and no one will talk to me about these things.” He stared down at his dust-covered boots, kicking the heels against the lower rail. Then he lifted his head. “Is it true that when you’re the lord of the manor, you can have any of the women you want?”

Now where had the boy come by that idea? There'd been a time when Gisborne had embraced the notion himself -, for all the joy he'd had of it, considering it had brought him his ill-starred foray into fatherhood. He’d done his best to put Annie and her son out of mind, convincing himself they were better off without him wherever they were, though he suspected the truth was that it had suited his ambition to have it so. All the same, these were not matters he’d had to confront at such an early age. He’d had his parent’s honourable marriage as an example before him - until that day in the barn when the discovery of the uglier side to his mother’s life had closed his mind to finer feelings for years.

And then Marian of Knighton had walked his way, turning his world to flame and then to ash...

But that way lay madness and guilt too terrible to bear... Gisborne pressed his lips together and folded his arms across his chest. “We’ve been through this before,” he said gruffly. “Time for all that later; you’ll pick it up from the older boys when you start your training.”

Was it the memory of his youthful pain that made him relent then, or the wish not to see another soul set off down the dark and shadowed path that led to a sun-drenched courtyard in the Holy Land?

“By all means tumble the village wenches if that’s to your taste,” he said, summoning an urbane smile; they were men of the world here, after all. “But you might find it less complicated to get your needs met elsewhere; find some accommodating woman who knows what she’s about.” Unconsciously, his angular features had softened. Mélis had proved the perfect solution for him; discreet, lovely, and as quick-witted as she was pleasing, and he seemed to please her too. Yet there was always that air of containment about her, an indication that she was no stranger to the hollow feeling that came over him at times as he lay sated in her bed.

As to how she spent the rest of her days, he held no illusions, for how else was she to pay her bills?

Aubrey de Saint Aubin was wrinkling his nose, the stippling of freckles coalescing into larger blotches and blots. “So what’s in it for them? The accommodating women, I mean,” he asked, the high clear voice boring into Gisborne’s brain. “Money, I suppose,” he answered himself, as if he’d been privy to Gisborne’s thoughts.

God help him, the pup was relentless! “What if it is? It’s honest return for services rendered."

A handsome lord like yourself, needing to pay for his pleasures? goaded the voice in his head.

Gisborne bridled, his impatience flooding back. "Do you think your average lord of the manor spares a coin or a moment's thought for the welfare of the serving girls he beds?” he snapped.

The youngster grimaced - at the tone or the sentiment, it wasn't clear, but his interrogation still wasn't done. “And when you’re wed? What then?” He thought for a moment, then answered himself once more. ”The accommodating woman again?” His expression turned sour with distaste. “Though a wife would be busy all the time with babies and things,” he concluded, “They’d probably be glad not to have to do it very much.” He glanced away to the horses, grazing contentedly side by side on the lush grass. “Though I don’t see what's in it for wives- shut up with their embroidery and their noisy smelly brats.”

“Protection… A home of their own to look after...” Gisborne had always wanted to believe this was all a woman asked of life, but put like that he was forced to concede the prospect sounded drear. Besides, he’d been proved wrong on that count before, and fatally so. “It’s not something that concerns me,” he said aloud. “Marriage is the last thing on my mind.”

“What about an heir to continue your line?”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Vaisey’s erstwhile enforcer shook his head, his lips twisting in a bitter smile. “What woman in her right mind would want me for the father of her children? Believe me. The world will be well rid of Gisbornes when I die.”

The boy regarded him thoughtfully and sucked his teeth. Then he shrugged. “Fathers are overrated,” he said bleakly. “In my experience. They never stay around for them to matter much.”

Quite the world-weary philosophiser, Gisborne thought, and at the grand old age of ten! His own father had left him his boyish illusions for a few more years.

But his young interlocutor had returned to his theme of a married woman’s lot. “Though I suppose it’s difficult for them to do their own fighting if they’ve not been taught. And the skirts don’t help; though it’s all a bit lame and pathetic if you ask me,” he added with a sniff of disdain. “Handed over without their say-so like a bundle of old rags. Unless they want to run away and be a nun.”

for the second time that morning, Gisborne passed a hand over his mouth, amused in spite of himself. The lady of Vignoles could be accused of a number of things, but lame and pathetic were not among them; nor was she blessed with the temperament of a bride of Christ. He stared out across the paddock, wanting to laugh and forcing it down past the odd constriction in his throat.

“It’s the way of the world,” he said at length. “Get used to it!”

Life is cruel, murmured the voice in his head.

Yes, yes, he thought impatiently. As I reminded you myself the other day. And we do what we must, I remember that one too...

But these were matters no fatherless boy of ten should have to deal with on his own. “Don’t feel too bad for them, runt,” he said, almost genially. “We men have to face death or maiming on the battlefield - if we’re not lying in camp, watching our guts leak out of our arseholes with the bloody flux.”

Don’t mince your words, will you, Gisborne?

But his patience had run out at last, irritation overcoming the grudging affinity he felt for this restless young soul. “Time you were going,” he announced, and strode off purposefully, leaving the lad no choice but to follow on behind.

“Can’t I come back tomorrow?” came the puppy-eyed plea as his small inquisitor skipped along at his side. “I’ve not practised my sword-play since I went away”

Gisborne set his jaw, refusing to be manipulated a moment more. “Your mother will skin you alive -and flay me with her tongue afterwards for encouraging you. Wasn’t your last lesson enough for you?’ He exhaled forcefully as the boy shook his head. “Just keep the tip up, and keep moving, remember? You don’t need me for that.”

“Don’t you want to practise too?” his tormentor wheedled, hopping on one foot and breathing hard as he strove to match Gisborne’s long stride. “There'll be a tourney soon, in the meadows beyond Avallon - a proper one, with jousting and single combat and everything.” he added gushingly, his eyes alight. “The lord of Chastellux's organizing it = he 's the one with a castle a few leagues south of here.”

This intelligence brought Gisborne’s head up sharp. He had followed the circuit at one stage in his life, when a borrowed horse and the hope of a prize were the only things that stood between him and despair. The smells of sweat, hot metal and horse-dung were all too familiar to him; the bone-crushing weariness of the lists, the lethal free-for-all of the melee, where death came at you from every angle, with the clash of lances and the pounding of iron-shod hooves. Then, if you were lucky enough to survive, there was the grim relentlessness of single combat to endure... It was not a time he’d wish to go back to; besides, the rigours of the tourney were not what concerned him the most.

“This late in the year?” he queried. “The season’s over now.”

The boy shook his head again. “It was to take place just before you arrived, at Eastertide, but the Lord Anséric was called away. Now he’s back, Ham told me, and it’s on again. For one time only, and by special request, the proclamation said!”

Gisborne’s brow furrowed. Combatant or not, he was under no illusion as to what such a gathering would mean - an influx to the area of the great and not so great and good. He’d been reluctant enough to reveal his presence to a few minor officials with the dust of their archives on their robes; to seek out the crowds voluntarily would be folly of the purest kind.

Mercifully, Cousin Raymond was still bogged down in Ireland the last he'd heard, fighting his father as much as the Irish themselves. Neither of them would take much pleasure in regurgitating the past. Nor was he eager to be recognised by any other of his former companions from the tourney circuits, given the drinking sessions and back-slapping reminiscences that would inevitably ensue.

Yet it was the patrons of the boxes in their colourful silks and furs who presented the greatest threat. He was too distinctive for anonymity with his height and his jutting beak of a nose, while everyone knew everyone and their business in those circles, and word travelled far and fast. Rumour had it Prince John was fully occupied up north, in Normandy, pursuing his treasonous agenda at the side of Phillipe of France, but Richard was nearer in Anjou, and the English king thought even less of him. He, Gisborne, could not have it known in those exalted echelons that he still lived.

How strange... When had he begun to value this quiet new life of his over the death he’d once craved?

Meanwhile the boy was still chattering excitedly, too young and too naïve to know what shadows lurked beneath the tourney circuit’s shiny exterior. He only saw the glamour and the glory. “There’s to be a prize of twenty livres and a fine sword,” he enthused, his eyes alight with the prospect of such high adventure. He gave a long and wistful sigh. “I wish I had a proper blade instead of some old stick.”

“Tourneys are for young hotheads with even less sense than money,” Gisborne decreed; which summed up that particular stage of his own life nicely. “And I already have a sword.” He reached over to lift the latch as they reached the gate, then encouraged the lad gently onwards with the toe of his boot. “Home. NOW! Or you’ll be late for your lessons and then you’ll never amount to anything much. Unless a career as a spit-boy suits your plans.”

Aubrey de Saint Aubin stumbled the first few paces before righting himself; then he turned, one fist raised to the sky in the gladiator’s salute. “Morituri te salutamus!” And off he went at the trot without a backward glance.

We who are about to die, indeed! Gisborne’s lips twitched. Then he collected himself and went in search of the steward; their daily discussion of business was long overdue. And it would have nothing to do with the denizens of the neighbouring manor in any way.

Or so he most fervently desired.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane had searched the usual hiding places of house, yard and garden, and drawn a blank.

She was saddling the gelding, all fingers and thumbs, preparing to seek further afield, when the heavy new gate slammed back against its post and slow footfalls crunched on the gravel stones. Aubrey was trudging towards her, deep in thought; a state of affairs that was all too frequent these days.

.“Wherever have you been?” she demanded, exasperation mingling with the heady rush of relief. “You’re...”

"Late. I know. I’m sorry. Is Father Joscelin here?” And at the nod, the wretched child ran off to wash and change, leaving Jehane fuming and lacking a convenient target for it.

This couldn’t be good. Foe or family, this relentless trying of her patience was giving her the belly gripes. Coming to a decision, she snatched the cloth from her head, balling it up in her fists and discarding it on the trestle. She might as well put this nervous energy to good use while the children were safe and gainfully occupied.

She beckoned to Berthe, who must have heard all the comings and goings but had only now put her head round the kitchen door. “Is Ham about?” she asked. “I’m going into Avallon after all. Tell him to hitch the donkey to the cart. That is,” she added acerbically, “ if we still have the use of either of them.”

“Reckon they’re over to Rossy-nolls till Sunday, mum, same as everything else,” the serving girl replied, with a sympathetic smile. She winked a conspiritorial eye. “I’ll get him to sneak ‘em over the fields for you.”

 

**The Town of Avallon.**

It was some time before Ham was located and the little equipage made ready to set out. By then the hour was well advanced for comfortable travel at this time of the year; the air was thick with mouse-grey dust, while the town wavered in the heat on its sun-scorched hill.

The gelding snorted its discomfort and tossed its head, the donkey echoing the protest with a cough and indignant sneeze as it trotted along between the shafts of the cart. Jehane detached a hand from her reins and pressed her veils closer to her face. Her eyes were tearing from the rising clouds of grit, and she was already questioning the wisdom of making the trip so late in the day.

Yet Hawise of Flavigny was right, interfering besom though she was; a visit to the market was as vital as it was urgent. Only a man would think to rebuild a manor from the ground up without including the smaller necessities of life. There wasn’t a decent cup or pot or tub in the place, nor a scrap of household linen beyond what sheets were on the beds.

It was worth a little discomfort to make her purchases without the flood of helpful advice that would have issued forth from Hawise's lips. The tastes of the prévost’s wife were not hers. Then she would be free for the equally important item on her agenda; grilling the harridan till her meagre stocks of fat ran. For there was no mistaking the inspiration behind the Auxerre wine merchant’s outrageously presumptuous acts.

By the time she’d stowed the last of her bundles in the cart, she was hot and disheveled, but her thirst for explanations had not diminished at all. Leaving her mount and equipage in a shady spot under Ham’s supervision, she entered the private yard that held the _prévost_ 's residence. A showy sorrel dipped its muzzle in the trough as she passed, raising its head to watch her with incurious eyes; Jehane found herself craving the water’s cooling powers with a fervour that only added to her store of grievances.

An iron ring hung from a lion mask on the door. She seized it and rapped smartly; upon receiving no answer, she rapped again.

The serving woman’s mouth fell open; then her snub nose wrinkled at the newcomer’s state of disarray - the rumpled gown, the sweat-stained veils. ““My lady Jehane! My mistress was not expecting you.” She was about to say more, but a tinkling laugh from the interior made it impossible for her to claim her employer was not at home.

Jehane drew herself up. “I was not expecting the pleasure myself,” she said tartly. “You may tell her I was passing and found I had a spare moment or two.”

The servant bobbed reluctantly and invited her inside. Jehane followed the woman down the panelled corridor, knowing she should have realised where she’d seen the oppressive furnishings of her remodelled home before, for it was not her first visit to this house. A liking for dark and over-done décor must run in the blood.

“My lady Jehane is here, mum.”

A chair scraped inside the chamber and Hawise herself sallied forth, smoothing down the olive silk of her gown. Her sallow features arranged themselves in a gratified smile as she spoke of her surprise, her delight, her concern that the hot weather might have discommoded her unexpected guest. Jehane was brushing these irrelevancies away when the scraping of a second chair alerted her to the fact that the prévost’s wife was not alone.

She turned to see a stranger; a man of medium height, richly but soberly dressed in a good wool tunic the colour of a burnished chestnut. A matching feathered cap lay on a nearby stool. To her disconcertion, he was bowing over her hand before she’d mustered the wit to snatch it away. Then he stepped back, gesturing her to a seat.

“Mistress Hawise,” she began tightly, shooting the stranger a quelling glance before ignoring him and his invitation to sit. “A private word with you if I may.”

But this was not a man to be easily crushed. “Your pardon, my lady! I was overcome. I did not dare hope... But well met, well met indeed.” He turned smilingly to address the woman at his side. ”Cousin, I must protest. You have not told me the half!”

Now what was it Berthe had said? Some fellow came on a fancy sorrel horse...

And there was a sorrel tethered outside. This smug puppy must be her self-appointed suitor then. Large brown eyes, unusually long-lashed, were conducting a lingering appraisal of her body and face. Jehane’s blood began a slow simmer. This was what a pedigree heifer must feel like on market day; next he’d be asking to examine her udders and teeth!

Through a gauzy red haze she heard Hawise’s tinkling laugh again. “Come, Cousin. Your admiration makes you forget yourself. You have not yet been introduced... Jehane, my dear...”

That's Lady Jehane to you!

Jehane gritted her teeth, biting back curses that had not crossed her mind in years. The pages in Ghent had proved an endless source of barrack room language, much to the relish of two little girls in a gloomy solar who'd witnessed their spats and their skirmishes with equal delight. But the _routier_ 's taunt must have cut deeper than she thought. Barfleur fishwife indeed...

"May I present Master Laurent Martin, premier wine merchant of Auxerre, by appointment to Count Pierre himself? When he came begging my help in finding a companion in life, you immediately came to mind.” Here the cousins exchanged a complacent smile. “I can vouch that he is more than capable of supporting a wife in the most delightful style.”

So there could be no mistake. This was the man who’d had the effrontery to trespass on her land, razing her house and her village while her back was turned and replacing them as he thought fit.

Her insides were a seething mass of molten metal, but her face was a frozen mask. Dignity was all. Tiredness and discomfort were forgotten as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I think you mistake me for one of the barrels of burgundy you smack your lips over, Master Merchant,” she said haughtily. By now she was almost enjoying herself. “Mistress Hawise, I would not have believed this, not even of you.”

“But my dear...” The older woman waved an ineffectual hand. “It was of you that I thought.”

No. You thought only of yourself!

 _May I present my kinsman, the lord of Vignoles_...

“My lady, you are angry, and rightly so.” Martin’s long lashes fluttered, leaving Jehane to wonder if this was a natural tic or a bid for sympathy; charming enough in a tiny child but ridiculous in anyone over Thierry’s age. “As Cousin Hawise has said, I have overstepped the mark. It is my one weakness, a sign that my emotions are deeply engaged.” He spread his hands, whiter and neater than any man’s had the right to be; her mind threw up a picture of other hands, petting her mare with long, calloused fingers, and she shivered, casting the recollection off.

But the merchant was still speaking, and Jehane chose to remain silent, allowing him to dig his own pit before she skewered him and threw him in. “What can I say in mitigation? I came to call on you, but found you gone.” The soft white hands spread again. “And when I saw your manor was not looking its best, I could not resist giving myself the joy of surprising you on your return.”

“But you are still standing, my lady,” Hawise put in hastily, not missing Jehane’s set jaw and blazing eyes. “Come sit and have some of our most excellent wine.” She busied herself with pitcher and goblet, offering a platter of honey-drizzled wafers in their wake.

Jehane took the proffered chair but waved wine and wafers away. Part of her anger was for herself; she should never have given this woman so much as the time of day. With so many calls on her attention, she’d let matters ride, for the sake of a quiet life and the hope that the problem would go away of its own accord.

“I was surprised, indeed,” she resumed tightly, her posture as rigid and uncompromising as the carved chair at her back. “Surprised to find myself wrong to think that not even the lowest of scoundrels would presume to trespass on my lands and property; let alone do as he wished with it when he had no reason to expect that I would accept so much as a knot of fairground ribbons from a man I have never met! As for you, Mistress Hawise, you have encouraged this, though I have stated my intention not to marry often enough.”

She had addressed the other woman, but the _prévost_ ’s wife must have tip-toed silently out, for Jehane found herself alone with her unwanted suitor in the over-furnished room. He was young and successful, tolerably handsome and clearly unused to taking no for an answer. Furthermore, he must have been reading too many of Master Chrétien’s tales of chivalry without understanding the spirit behind them, for now he went down on one knee.

“My lady, forgive me,” he begged. “It was my intention to be waiting to present my suit when you returned. But I was driven away by superior forces - threatened with death, no less, by a murderous brigand on a vicious black demon of a horse.” He pressed his palms together in supplication. “Will you not grant me leave to redeem myself?”

“Can you tear down that monstrosity of a house?" Jehane demanded coldly. "Brick by brick, and restore it to what it was, together with the rest of my estate? I thought not. Know this, Master Merchant. I am in no need of a husband, and if I were, it would never be you.”

“But my lady Jehane...” Martin reached out a hand, detaining her by her forearm. “As my cousin said, I am rich. I can offer you the kind of life you have only dreamed of. You must reconsider! For your children’s sake...”

For her children’s sake?

How dare he!

It was the spark that lit the fire. Jehane wrenched her arm free and slapped him, hard, across the face. The marks of her fingers stood out on his skin, satisfyingly red and angry as he swayed on his knees before her, mouth agape. Slapping faces was becoming something of a habit of hers, she reflected hazily as she brought up her other arm and slapped his other cheek.

Her mind went back to the wild revenge she’d pictured for the routier, courtesy of the tutelage of the pages of Ghent, and she smothered a grim smile. Kicking shins was not a viable option for a kneeling man. For one mad moment she contemplated ensuring this man would never father offspring of his own. Instead she snatched up the wine flagon and emptied it over his head.

“When I want to live in a house that’s furnished like a whorehouse,” she stormed, the leash on her tongue loosed at last, “Sharing my bed with some arrogant prick who thinks money can buy everything, you’ll be the first to know.”

The wine had plastered his golden brown hair to his head and streamed down his face, soaking into the wool of his costly tunic like an advancing tide of blood. It felt good. It solved none of her problems, but it felt good. Perhaps she should have tried this with the other arrogant prick in her life. She cast the empty flagon aside, tossing it to the flags with a gratifying clang as she delivered a final riposte. “Superior forces and murderous brigands will be the least of your worries if I ever set eyes on you again.”

Persuading herself she still retained a toe-hold on the moral high ground, she spun on her heel and stalked out. Her situation was precarious to say the least; mired in debt, with two half-feral children to usher into some kind of respectable adulthood and a neighbour that the devil himself would disown. Even so, she felt good indeed; in fact, a great deal more than good.

Hawise was dithering in the passage, wondering who had been murdering whom, but Jehane swept on past. That too felt good. After this assault on her precious cousin’s person, the meddlesome creature was unlikely to trouble her again. “I shall see myself out,” she said, her nose in the air. “I have a house and an estate to set in order - as you will know.”

Signalling an open-mouthed Ham to follow her, she mounted her gelding and galloped away, her spirits soothed somewhat, and almost looking forward to the forthcoming household purge.


	25. Chapter 25

  **Chapter Twenty-five.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

It was the brush of gentle fingers across his face that woke him, light as the touch of a wandering moth.

_It is half-way Terce,_ amics, _and you are free..._

The ghostly voice receded together with the dream; the touch became the breath of a morning breeze and there was an insistent rustle in the region of his ear, followed by a muffled chirp and the whirr of small wings. Gisborne’s eyes opened on a latticework of luminous green a handspan above his head, backed by an enamelling of blue. He was not in that castle chamber in Nottingham, lit by a pale spring sun; it was high summer, and he lay under a hedge somewhere along the lanes of Burgundy.

He’d baulked at the prospect of an airless room at an inn, preferring the freshness and freedom of a bed under the stars. This too was the stuff of memories -  those weeks when he’d left his bolthole in the forests of the Morvan to wander aimlessly through lush green lands; sleeping under the vault of the sky, to wake at dawn with the stallion grazing nearby, his presence signalled by an occasional soft _harrump_. Though sleep was no longer so much of an enemy as it used to be; the realisation brought a jolt of surprise with it as he sat up, stretching muscles stiff from the hard-baked ground. He'd spent fewer nights on bloody battlefields of late, or crawling across deserts under a baleful red eye. By some miracle, so slow and insidious he had barely noticed its progress, the demons were tiring of him.

Shrugging off the last remnants of his dream, he reached for his pouch. Here was another improvement on the past; instead of sour wine and dry crusts, he would break his fast pleasantly on a manchet loaf and herbed cheese from his own dairy, with a costrel of his own mellow vintage to wash it down. Some things, however, never changed; the moment the buckles on the pack were undone, the stallion came over to investigate, hoping for apples. Gisborne palmed the last wizened specimen and debated whether to divide it into two; he planned to be away for some time yet.

A bare two days had passed since his conversation with the persistent young Aubrey when an unaccustomed bustle drew him up to the bluff overlooking the Avallon road. A motley collection of wagons and horsemen had been heading towards the town; stall-holders and the lowlier knights arriving early to ensure themselves a prime place on the tourney grounds. Already the crowds had been gathering, exposing him to the possibility of discovery much sooner than he’d thought.

Gisborne bestowed an absent-minded pat on the stallion's questing muzzle, reflecting that his prompt departure had solved another problem; the stubborn beast’s fondness for a certain pregnant mare. He’d instructed Reynault to return her to Vignoles on the Sunday as promised. His flame-headed neighbour was enough of a thorn in his side without presenting her with just cause, served up on a platter with a roasted apple in its mouth. Given time and a full round of stud duties, the stallion’s enthusiasm would wane. So far the beast showed no signs of dissatisfaction, no reluctance to perform; then off he'd trot to his next assignation, light of step and bright of eye.

He on the other hand was looking a little the worse for wear, or so his reflection told him as he went to clean himself up in a stream. His appearance was hardly inspiring of confidence, being more that of an outlaw or footpad than the honest steward he was claiming to be. Shirt changed, hair combed to remove twigs and leaves and shaven as well as he could manage by touch, he set off again, making for the inn of the _Cerf d’Or_ , half a league outside the small town of Clamecy; it was there that he’d arranged to meet the next prospective client on his list.

The sun’s rays had already begun to bite by the time he arrived. Sweat pricked down the length of his spine and he was glad of the cool darkness of the low-beamed taproom. He called for wine to pass the time, sipping leisurely but appreciatively for he was early for his appointment. Like the _Escusson_ _de_ _Bourgogne_ , the Golden Stag was among the better establishments he’d found on his travels; the red was rough but pleasant, and the slice of new-baked pigeon pie the serving girl brought for him to sample was fragrant with garden herbs, the crust short and crisp around chunks of meat that were tender and plentiful. But the morning was advancing and he began to suspect that his client was either not coming or seriously delayed. With nothing else planned till the morrow, he had a fresh pitcher of wine brought to him in the arbour and sat drowsing in sun-dappled peace till the stallion came round from the paddock to see what he was about.

By then it was clear that the man was not coming at all. Gisborne shrugged and asked about a room for the night, thinking to spend a rare lazy afternoon under the shade of the vines, with the prospect of a good supper and a soft bed at the end of it. But the chamber he was shown was under the eaves and thick with heat like most he'd been shown on his travels so far, and promising to get worse by evening. He shook his head at the flushed serving girl and turned back down the stairs, calling out to the inn-keeper that he’d changed his mind.

Instead he rode on in the direction of his next appointment with his pouch of food replenished, planning to spend another night under the stars. The sun was unmerciful though it was not yet noon; hot and dusty, he skirted the town of Treigny, following the course of a rushing brook till he entered the cool depths of the forest of Guédelon. Here he stopped to rest beneath the oaks that circled a small lake. An outcrop of red sandstone caught his eye and a generous deposit of clay. Wood, water and stone; claggy earth for bricks and tiles - all the raw materials were readily to hand. Someone with more money and ambition than himself should build a castle here someday... 

He was watching a stray breeze riffle the water, thinking vaguely of taking off his clothes and wading in, when it happened.

 Out of nowhere, a bag crammed over his head and rough hands, seizing him.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

It was going to be child’s play to sneak away from the manor at dawn.

A hump of pillows stuffed under the sheets was an old trick, but it would fool a seven-year-old brother for long enough. As for Maman, she’d been up and about since the unearthly hour of prime; hopefully she'd be leaving any time now.

She'd stalked through each chamber of their strange new house last night, pointing at this and that, her lips tightening as yet another monstrosity fell under her critical gaze. She’d grown too used to making her own choices in life to have the whims of others imposed on her, she'd said. Which just about summed up everyone’s feelings in the matter;  Vignoles no longer felt like home. And all because some man had decided Maman needed a husband, and that man should be him.

Aubrey's blood ran cold at the thought. Maman needed a man like a fish needed a pack pony!  The Dark Virgin of Dijon had surely been with the Knight when he’d driven the intruder away - or maybe it was the work of Thierry’s lucky owl. It had been a rare old sight anyway, according to Ham, who still had the cuts and bruises to prove it, along with the shining eyes.

The tourney’s accompanying fair and market was a god-sent opportunity to squeeze a little benefit from an impossible situation, Maman had declared. The mission was to be entrusted to the faithful Ernoul, who was old but cunning, his dickering skills legendary. Judging by the bumps and scrapes and grunts coming from downstairs, they were supervising the loading of the donkey cart with the chief offenders among the _new_ _improvements_ \- or so Maman had dubbed them with a derisive snort.  Maman herself would be taking the ox-wagon to a nearby cave, where some enterprising villagers had stowed what they could retrieve from the original furnishings, piled up for burning by the invading hordes.

The long-awaited crack of a whip came at last, and a rumble of heavy wheels; The ox-wagon had left for the cave. A creak from the kitchen door followed and a throaty grumble from below; Ernoul had come for a bite to eat and _summat_ _to_ _wet_ _his_ _whistle_ before fetching Flopears and hitching him to the cart. Time to be moving, and fast, before the old headman returned. Aubrey crept down the stairs, boots clutched in a white-knuckled hand.

Maman had rejected all pleas for a sight of the tourney itself, no matter how manipulative or augmented with heavy sighs and beseeching looks. It was no place for children, she'd said; especially those who had serious work to do. They were to help Ham and a couple of the other village boys to groom and pamper Blancheflor; then they must ready the barn and hencoop for the livestock Ernoul would purchase from the proceeds of the furniture sale. Several bales of straw had been sent from Li Rossinholetz in readiness - Master Reynault’s neighbourly gesture, Maman believed, though Aubrey wanted to put it down to a chivalrous impulse on the part of the Knight. It was a shame she’d taken against him so. True, he could be cantankerous, but in his own volatile, unpredictable way, he could be generous with his time to an aspiring young squire who had a daunting maze of life-lessons to negotiate.

The division of loyalties over the ownership of Li Rossinholetz was still an uncomfortable focus for Aubrey’s thoughts on many a night. On the one hand there was their loving mother and the promises of a childhood friend; on the other, a man with a legal title, signed and sealed, who embodied everything a young squire could aspire to be - strong, single-minded and ruthless against the world, but not without his own honour code.

It had been another blow to find a man of such sterling qualities shared Maman’s jaundiced view of tourneys. Perhaps they were no longer interesting to someone of his sophistication, nor a challenge to his skills; for Aubrey had privately decided that the legendary Guillaume le Maréchal in his prime was no match for their own dark knight. But what that knight seemed to have forgotten on his pinnacle of perfection was that lesser mortals were never going to rectify their lack of experience by staying at home and forking straw.

Fortunately, Ham was open to bribery; a promise of gingerbread fairings had bought his silence, to be shored up with a rolling tide of excuses for the casual inquirer. Berthe was not so easy to bamboozle, but she was busy setting the new kitchen to rights; the fire still smoked horribly and she’d been heard to mutter that these new-fangled chimbleys were a bit of fanciful decoration no Christian folk would countenance, and nowt much else besides.

Out in the yard, the air was cool and fresh; all was silence, for even the birds had yet to wake. The morning star was still aloft, a winking jewel in a sky the colour of the Virgin’s robe, its trailing hem tinged with pink towards the east. Quick as a wriggling elver, Aubrey climbed into the cart, squirming under the canvas and into the narrow space between a washstand as fiercely curlicued as many a rood screen and a pair of high-backed chairs.

Then it was a case of waiting, heart in mouth, for discovery or the off.

 

**The Meadows between Avallon and Vézelay.**

For someone who’d travelled the highways and byways from Dijon to Tours and beyond, it was not far to Avallon.

Yet the road seemed to go on forever as they jolted along. The wheels jounced over ridges and ruts, rattling bones and chattering teeth together, while the load swayed alarmingly, leaving any enterprising stowaway in imminent danger of being crushed. Finally they slowed and the scent of bruised grass and morning dew replaced the smells of hot dust. They were here!

Aubrey inched forward, poking a cautious nose through a slit in the tarpaulin as they wove their way through a veritable canvas town, stalls and booths stretching as far as the eye could see. Enticing sights and sounds assailed them from all sides; flashes of colour, hoarse laughter, snatches of conversation in exotic accents, everything to make the heart soar in anticipation of the delights to come.  A real tourney, with real knights engaging in actual combat! Aubrey’s short life had never contained such high excitement. The splendours of Dijon and the ducal courts, the everchanging vistas of the journey down the Loire... Nothing had been as soul-stirring as this.

A stallholder cursed them as they passed, claiming his trestle had been clipped by their wheel. the ensuing altercation was the perfect opportunity to slip down and go to ground in narrow angle between two booths. The plaintive squeak of an axle indicated that Ernoul had driven on at last, and it was safe to come out and look around. For the most part, the stalls were still empty, awaiting their complement of goods; they hunched together along narrow aisles, their awnings of olives, duns and browns forming  long, continuous tents; protection for the coming flood of customers against the worst of the sun.

A pleasant smell of cured leather announced the saddler, where festoons of harness were going up; some plain and serviceable, some tooled and decorated for the well-to-do. Aubrey cast covetous eyes on a scarlet halter decorated with silver studs in the shape of tiny eagles, then wandered on. Here the clothiers were opening bales of everything from cheap rags to serviceable homespun for the village folk; there; sacks of cast-off finery were being emptied and shaken out - clothes for ambitious town folk or for servants from noble houses to flaunt on high days and holidays; while cloth merchants were sliding bolts of russet and green from their heavy linen covers, offering rarer glimpses of costly blues and reds.

Aubrey hardly spared them a second glance; there were far more enticing sights to be seen further along. Knives of all sorts and for all seasons; for cutting meat at dinner or slipping between an enemy’s ribs. Knives with hilts of crude wood or chased silver; knives with blades as narrow as a needle or wide as a falchion. And the swords...  Aubrey was worldly enough to know you’d not find a Durendel or Excalibur on a common tourney ground stall. There were a few sturdy, workmanlike weapons among them, but many were notched and pitted with rust in a way that screamed criminal neglect. Here though, slipped down between two vast wooden chests, was something quite different and much more promising.

The cutler had paused for a gossip and a beaker of ale; Aubrey sidled closer and stretched out a cautious hand. The scabbard was old and battered;  the once-red leather binding the hilt was unravelling, but the blade whispered out as easily as a prayer on the lips of a saint. Again, rust speckled a weapon that was hardly more than a long knife; but the balance was perfect, so that it sang in the hand. A sword like this must have been made for some young prince of old; it cut through the air cleanly, as if it could slice through the many troubles the coming years would bring. Aubrey’s mouth watered with the fierceness of the desire to possess the blade.

“Put that down, you little varmint!”

The stallholder's cry punctured the bright bubble. The dream dissolved into a welter of breathlessness and tears; painful yearning and pounding feet.

“Stop, thief!”

Eventually the market area petered out, giving way to a sea of tents of every shape and size. A wall of canvas bought an abrupt end to onward flight;  Aubrey ducked between two of the lowlier pavilions, gulping in great lungfuls of air and praying not to be betrayed by an empty stomach that was bent on proclaiming the fact.

A prudent adventurer would have anticipated the problem. There’d been bread in the crock last night to sneak upstairs, but the prospect of fairground delicacies had been more alluring at the time. In practice, it had been too early for the cook-stalls to put out their wares, while the rather flat purse at your belt was a stark reminder there would be little left over when debts were honoured and the fairings bought.

Though what did mere food matter when there were so many new experiences to digest? The lists would be empty at the moment; the competitions would not begin till later, when the crowds arrived. But some of the knights would be early risers; they'd be exercising their mounts or sparring with friends perhaps. Yes, there’d be interesting glimpses of a warrior’s life to be had in this bustling canvas town.

A smell of wood smoke and lye and a cackle of female laughter announced that the washerwomen were out and about, tending their fires. This easy domesticity was a sure sign that the cutler’s hue and cry had died down and it was safe to emerge and explore again.

“Here, lad!” One of the women had dipped up a steaming bundle from her cauldron. “Give me a hand to wring this out and I’ll give you a new crust spread with honey for your trouble.”

Aubrey stepped over to the laundress’s fire, eager to seal the bargain - only to discover with a swingeing rush of guilt that the prince’s sword was still clutched in one fist. Perhaps it could be returned when the press of customers was too great for the stall-holder to notice; meanwhile there was nothing for it but to anchor the blade under an armpit and hang on to one end of the thick wet linen wodge.

Some time later, the would-be warrior was licking sticky lips and dodging onwards through the canvas maze, growing more disillusioned by the moment. There was none of the anticipated glamour here; many a tent was stained and patched, and there was no sign of the noble heroes of the tales. Why, the Knight at his initial bedraggled worst had shown more elegance and élan than these hawking and spitting travesties of a _chevalier_ with their grease-stained tunics and frowsty facial hair.

This mean huddle was clearly not the place to look for a Sir Lancelot. Better luck beckoned further on, where the terrain began its rise towards Avallon’s hill; there, pennants curled lazily in the air like dragon tongues tasting the last of the morning breeze, gorgeous in scarlet and blue and gold. Aubrey drifted on, drawn inexorably towards the gaudy sight, an insignificant shadow flitting across the trampled grass, to disappear into the striped and lozenged labyrinth.

This was more like it!

A squire in the mulberry on white of the ducal house of Burgundy sat on a stool outside a pavilion draped to match his livery, polishing an immense broadsword with infinite care. Across the way a youth in leaf-green and yellow pulled a gleaming hauberk from a barrel, shaking off the last of the cleansing sand. Pages dashed hither and yon, balancing silver salvers on their fingertips, charged with flagons of wine and platters of food;intriguing metallic clinks issued forth from behind heavy silk or canvas walls, and deep voices rose in laughter or bursts of sudden ire. And here and there the morning breeze teased at tent flaps, revealing tantalizing half-glimpses of even more; hints of bright colour, a mailed arm or belted hip; a broad-shouldered silhouette or a sliver of ruddy bearded face.

Rounding a corner, Aubrey stopped and stared in awe. Here was a great giant of a tent, set in a protective circle like a castle keep within its curtain walls. Lofty and double-masted, it was hung with weighty damask, banded in crimson and gold and embossed with eagles in flight. As yet no pennants flew from the roof, while the flaps were tied back with wrist-thick silken ropes. Unoccupied, then, for the moment; even so, guards patrolled the perimeter, though the glances under their conical helmets were relaxed for now, their hands on their belts rather than their sword-hilts whenever their paths crossed and they exchanged a jovial word.

Their surcôtes matched the livery of the tent; crimson, with an eagle in gold on the breast. Someone important would be hosted here before the tourney began; a visiting duke maybe, or even a prince! Aubrey’s imagination took flight. The merest peek inside this luxurious silk stronghold would be exciting, and perhaps there would be some dark corner where a small body could hide until there was yet more to be seen. It was the matter of moments to sidle round to the back, a passing group of boasting squires providing ample cover for the move. A quick glance about to assess the nearest guard’s whereabouts, and the intrepid scout went belly to the ground, snaking swiftly across the open space. Five paces... two...

Out of nowhere an iron hand descended, merciless in its bruising grip. Frozen with shock, Aubrey was hauled up, smelling greased metal and leather and ripe male sweat.

“And where do you think you’re going, lad?”

The guard’s tone was mild, though the same could not be said of his breath. It came in strong waves that reeked of garlic sausage and sour wine. This was serious trouble! Visions of dungeons and execution blocks danced before Aubrey’s eyes. A lone plan suggested itself; a plan born of sheer desperation, but amazingly it worked. A quick kick to the shins, a poke in the gut with the hilt of the prince’s sword and the fugitive from justice was off again, darting through the narrow spaces where a burly man in chain mail could not pass.

The tourney ground loomed up ahead with its rising rows of benches for the common folk. Aubrey dived into the underlying forest of posts and planks, panting and sucking fruitlessly at the thick close air. The sun beat down mercilessly above, making it hotter under there than the kitchen in mid-summer when Berthe was boiling up fruit and honey for the winter preserves. The far side of the arena would be in shade; it would also provide a better vantage point for the proceedings, for it was there that the covered boxes for the highborn were set up.

The problem was how to reach them when breath was hard to come by and every muscle was voicing a separate complaint; the shortest route lay across the grass, but that screamed danger to anyone with a crumb of common sense. There was nothing for it but to worm a way round beneath the stands.

The crawl seemed never-ending. Knees and elbows scraped and stinging, Aubrey reached the underside of a gaily-bedecked _loge_ at last, to collapse gratefully in the cool dark. Worn out by the early start and the challenges of the day, it took no time at all to fall asleep, the young prince’s sword still clutched in one hot hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone did indeed think to build a castle at Guedelon, but not in Gisborne's lifetime. It wasn't till the present century that work began.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to post and run today! Many thanks for the comments meanwhile, and I'll be back to reply as soon as I can.

**Chapter Twenty-six.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

 “Get off me!”

Gisborne struggled fruitlessly as his arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists bound with coarse rope. Through the thick sacking and the wild beat of his pulse, he heard the stallion’s scream and the snap of equine teeth. Angry shouts rang out, to the drumming of booted feet and the shimmer of drawn steel, and Gisborne’s heart raced for the brave beast that had only hooves and teeth to defend itself against what had to be a sizeable number of armed men.

A final snort and a diminishing hoof-beat told him he was alone to face his captors, leaving him torn between resentment and relief. Thieves and deserters had set upon Queen Eleanor’s courier and the stallion had cannily avoided their superior numbers, returning as soon as he judged the odds were on his side. There was consolation in that thought and a slender ray of hope.

Yet Gisborne was forced to acknowledge that these were no thieves or deserters, as his ankles were bound with swift efficiency and he was manhandled across the turf. He’d concealed his purse inside his shirt on a cord that went round his neck and under an arm, but they’d made no attempt to search him; they’d even ignored the tell-tale chink of coin.

He’d made enemies here in Burgundy, he knew, over and above the red-headed termagant whose lands marched with his - Osmond de Bèze, who’d appeared out of nowhere to lay claim to his lands, and who must still be smarting after the loss of his dignity and his fancy jewelled knife; Laurent Martin, the wine merchant from Auxerre, driven off ignominiously from the manor he’d rebuilt at great personal expense... But this was no band of second-rate thugs of the kind they could afford. They were many and they were skilled; so skilled that despite their numbers, he’d not had the slightest inkling they were on his trail.

He was thrown across  the back of a horse and the column set off. Deprived of sight, his belly painfully compressed by his own weight against the galloping beast, Gisborne strained his remaining senses, reaching for other clues; the soft ring of costly and well-maintained mail and harness, the good leather smell of the saddle and the steady, ground-eating pace of the fluid-muscled animal under him. The detachment rode with an iron discipline, with none of the easy banter of those who served a lesser lord. Richard’s men then? Or Prince John’s? Either possibility drove an ice-cold spike into his breast.

He fought down the stabs of animal fear and concentrated his mind as the jolting and the beat of hooves went relentlessly on, in counterpoint to the unruly pounding of his heart. In all honesty, his options were few. He could play for time and pray the stallion would return with reinforcements; a forlorn hope, for what could Reynault and his villagers do against what were clearly crack troops? Alternatively, he could play dead, or as near as made no matter, until his captors stopped to refresh themselves; then he could catch them off guard somehow. He’d been relieved of his sword as a matter of course, but they’d failed to discover the curved dagger he kept in his boot.

He grimaced under the stifling hood, for the irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here was a man who’d died twice and had longed for death again;  craved and prayed for it, yet now he rebelled against it with every fibre of his being. Was it the pain and shame that would await him beforehand that disturbed him so? Once he’d convinced himself that the disembowelling knife would be as welcome as a lover’s kiss, since it would bring him to oblivion at the end. Then he’d been dragged back from the brink and given something to live for, slowly and insidiously and almost against his will; a small place in the world that was Li Rossinholetz, and all his own...

His meagre hopes of deliverance faded by the moment as the column rode on, into the blazing summer day. The sun beat down on his unprotected back, the dark fabric of his shirt soaking up the heat till it seemed to sear his flesh with tongues of flame. Inside the hood, sweat poured down his face in streams, stinging his eyes, while the thick smell of the musty sacking clogged his nostrils, making him struggle for breath, only to gag on the stench.

Mercifully he must have fainted, for he was jerked awake by a sudden change of pace; the column had slowed, the dull thunder of galloping hooves replaced by the ring of iron shoes on stone. A bridge or causeway along the route? he wondered dully, for the blood had run to his extremities, his feet swollen inside his boots and his temples throbbing with scarlet jags of pain. But no, they appeared to have reached their destination; curt commands and stamping hooves echoed and re-echoed, placing them within the confines of a curtain wall. Before he could speculate further, he was dragged from the horse’s back, his bruised and abused stomach cramping. Cobbles skinned his knees as he fell heavily, his bonds preventing him from saving himself.

His head still swam inside the bag as a blade was slipped between his ankles with a brutality that gouged his swollen flesh though the leather of his boots. Then he was hauled to his feet and led stumbling across stone setts, the changing timbre of their footsteps telling him they were passing through a door.

Inside, the air was chill, with an unpleasant taint of damp; then there were stairs, narrow and winding, and he was led down and down, missing his step from time to time on the worn and uneven treads. He was under no illusion as to his destination now; the distant creak and clank of iron echoed up to him, while a miasma of dusty stone, unwashed bodies and full waste buckets filtered through the weave of the hood. Finally the grim procession halted. Rusting hinges squealed in protest and he was thrust forward, off-balance, his fall broken by a soft and stinking heap. Something small and furred skittered over his back, squeaking, a naked tail trailing across the skin of his bound hands.

Gisborne blinked as the hood was snatched from his head, the flickering torchlight confirming his suspicions; he was sprawled on an evil-smelling mound of straw in a cramped cell. His guards waited, talking among themselves  while a crusted waste bucket was produced for him; then the cell door clanged shut, the key grating in the lock with an awful finality. As the footsteps of his abductors died away. Gisborne prepared himself for one of the more uncomfortable nights in his life, and what was possibly the last. And he still had no idea where he was or who had taken him.

But the receding footfalls had halted. “Ah,” a voice announced into the noisome dark. “I do believe I nearly forgot!” His companions sniggered as Gisborne lay where he fell, gritting his teeth and refusing to humiliate himself further by struggling to right himself while he still had an audience.

“He was supposed to be kept alive,” the guard sneered. “Just.” And his men sniggered again. “There’ll be food and drink of sorts coming for him, gaoler. But he’s a devious prick by all accounts. Wait till they’ve put it inside and you’ve locked him up again. Then he can stick his wrists through the bars so you can cut his hands free. Unless you fancy amusing yourselves by watching him eat and piss like the dog he is.”

 

**The Tourney Ground.**

A cascade of bright notes rang out, rising and falling like a fountain of liquid silver in the clear air.

Aubrey watched open-mouthed as the Knight rode to battle, clad in coal-black mail. The sable kettle helm hid the familiar hawk-like features, but the wolf’s head blazon on his shield proclaimed his identity for everyone to see. The crowd roared as he sped for the opposing ranks, singling out his adversary and unhorsing him with almost contemptuous ease. Then he slid from his mount, the sunlight striking golden spangles from the great broadsword as he drew it from its scabbard, and the trumpets flared again…

Suddenly, he was down!

His opponent had snatched up a length of splintered lance and hooked his legs out from under him - a craven move, against all the rules of chivalry. The Knight lay winded and unmoving as the miscreant retrieved his horse and mounted, the monstrous liver chestnut snorting fire as it thundered towards the fallen man on massive iron-shod hooves.

The crowd groaned.

Aubrey could not breathe, could not look, as the trumpets sounded once more...

...And jerked almost painfully awake, heart still beating a frantic tattoo, only to find the drumming hooves and the strident fanfare were no dream. The tourney had begun.

A gap in the _loge_ ’s colourful canvas skirts offered a sight of the field of arms, but it was a limited one; sun-parched grass, pock-marked with small holes and clumps of dislodged turf; and, all too infrequently, a horse’s legs and a mailed foot in a stirrup as the knights rode forward to make their challenge for the single combat of the _commençailles_. These were to last until noon, but: in a concession to the lateness of the season and its fierce afternoon heat, there would be no _mêlée_ afterwards; this would be fought tomorrow, just after dawn, and it would be a brutal, bloody tangle, or so the talk went. Today was the time to witness some real skill and pick up a few useful tips.

Cautiously, the aspiring young squire snaked backwards, emerging at the rear of the stands to scuttle up the wooden framework like a monkey up a tree. The odd gouge on already grazed knees and a splinter or two under a nail were a small price to pay for this superior vantage point. Aubrey crouched in a corner at the back of the box, watching with shining eyes as the scenes from the dream played themselves out in reality. And if there was no knight in coal-black mail among the contestants, there was enough of the galloping, slashing, grunting excitement to gladden the most demanding young heart.

If there was one cloud on such a glorious horizon, it was the pavilion’s twittering complement of fashionable ladies and _demoiselles_. Time after time a crucial moment was hidden from view as they stood to cheer their favoured champions, their long silken sleeves fluttering like wings, in shades of emerald, grape and plum. Frustrated, Aubrey risked easing closer to the front, duck-walking down the tiers in the gap between the canvas wall and the ranks of cushioned seats. This proved to be a fatal mistake: a woman in hyacinth blue bent down to retrieve a kerchief that had slipped from her lap –and came face to face with a bedraggled urchin with grubby, sweat-stained cheeks.

“Thief! Cut-purse!”

The high-pitched shriek brought two guards running. These were not the smart men at arms who had patrolled the perimeter of the great red and gold tent; they were common or garden town enforcers, grim-faced and hard bitten and not the sort to underestimate the cunning of a youthful offender, as their more urbane brethren had done earlier in the day. Strong fingers closed on shrinking flesh and the Knight’s warning flashed through Aubrey’s mind, turning blood to ice. It would be the lock-up for sure; then a hand on the block and the vicious bite of an axe.

“I stole nothing!” The desperate protest forced its way out at last as the guards dragged their squirming prey from the ladies’ gallery and along the perimeter of the field. “Search me and see!”

A phlegmy chuckle was the answer.

“Reckon he’s young enough to think we’ve not heard that one before, eh, Hervé?” a second rough voice jeered. “Get along with you. You dropped your stash under the bleachers before we got here.”

“Owwwwwwwwwwwww!”

But wild struggles availed nothing now, and a jab from the princely sword was not an option; it lay under the _loge_ , forgotten in the excitement of seeing a real live tourney for the very first time. The vise-like grip tightened, a pinched ear and the odd boot to the behind adding to the catalogue of woes.

“I’m no thief, I tell you,” Aubrey shouted, righteous anger overcoming cold terror at last as they passed before a neighbouring pavilion; an elaborate affair, gloriously caparisoned in the same crimson and gold damask as the double-masted tent. “My mother is the lady of the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon!”

This claim elicited further coarse guffaws. “And I’m the Pope of Rome,” Hervé jeered, his brindled chin thrust intimidatingly close. And with a bone-rattling shake or two, the guardsmen made to hustle their captive on.

“You there!”

A cool, imperious voice rang out, stopping the sorry little company in its tracks.

“You men! Bring that boy to me.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting and running again...

**Chapter Twenty-seven.**

**A dungeon, location unknown**.

The food when it came was reasonable for what it was; prison fare. He’d ordered the supply of far worse himself, back in Nottingham. There was a day-old half-loaf and a coarse leather beaker of some rat’s piss brew, but he saw nothing alive and crawling in the bread nor dead and floating in the wine.

In truth he had little appetite for either, yet the opportunity to get his hands untied was not to be turned down. When the meal had been delivered and the cell door secured with a second ear-grating squeal from the key, he turned and stuck his wrists through the bars meekly enough. Then he hunkered down on the filthy straw, pretending to eat; in reality he was waiting for the the gaoler to grow bored and go to talk to the guards in the wardroom, taking the single torch with him.

Gisborne needed no light for the task in hand; when the moment came, familiarity rendered his fingers swift and sure as he retrieved the dagger from his boot and concealed it under the straw. He wanted it close in the night for when the rats came back. More to the point, he would slide the knife into a sleeve come morning, for his gaolers would be wary of opening his cell door without retying his wrists. Then he must pray he’d be fast enough to palm it, severing his bonds behind his back as they juggled with his breakfast and his slop pail, and killing enough of them to make his escape. 

For now his priority must be to regain his strength. He should sleep for as long as he could, though from here, several levels beneath the ground, he had no way of estimating time. Nor was oblivion easy to come by; the hours stretched before him, leaden-slow, weighing on him as heavily as the pall of impenetrable dark. The coughs, the farts, the muffled groans of the other prisoners were all that told him he was not alone down there.

Life was cruel all right, and he’d been a fool let himself believe otherwise. Like the catherine wheel on the night that ended his boyhood for ever, the Wheel of Fortune had turned and he was down at the bottom again. Examined objectively, his hopes of escape were so slender as to be futile. Death had always been his best hope for peace, he acknowledged resignedly; the sooner morning came, and the rope or the axe, the better for him.

He must have dozed off eventually, propped up in his corner with his head against a wall, for when he opened his eyes, Meg was sitting beside him, her form insubstantial against the foetid blackness of the cell.

 _Is your life so empty that you don’t care whether you live or die?_ she asked, as she'd asked him before.

That was the thing. That old hedge-witch Matilda had been right; death was too good for a man like him, a man who destroyed every worthwhile thing he touched.

 _Marian_...

For a fleeting moment, her image floated before him, summoned by his thoughts; but it was blurring already, dissolving into a dancing cloud of dust-motes in the inky shadows of his prison. Bit by bit, the very memory of her was being taken from him, leaving the way clear for all the other ghosts to come crowding in. Now she smiled her sad sweet smile at him, and was gone.

Gisborne groaned and drew his knees to his chest, covering his eyes with his hands. Like that poor wretch of legend, he was chained to a rock for eagles to tear at his flesh... Condemned to be forced back into life and the pain of body and soul; over and over, world without end, amen.

John had taken him for sure. Or Richard. Or Vaisey had been reborn from the rubble of Nottingham Castle like Gisborne himself, and come to settle his accounts. The cloak of protection that had shielded him for so long had been withdrawn at last, supposing it had ever existed outside his own mind.

But that’s why you’ve done all this, he berated the quiet voice that spoke to him from time to time, making him remember so much he’d tried to forget. You offered to sit beside me and listen, and I made you my whore. This is your revenge; to make me live on so I would suffer the longer, in payment for what I did to you and the woman I loved. To manipulate me into fighting for Li Rossinholetz, so you could snatch it away when it had begun to mean something to me.

 _No one actually seems sorry that you’re on the way out_ , Meg observed pertly.

Gisborne clutched his arms round his knees and began the dismal tally. He'd often suspected that the loyalty Reynault had shown him was to honour his late lady’s memory, while the tenants’ allegiance was to their steward and the land. As for the delectable Mélis, he harboured no illusions; she welcomed the purely physical pleasure she had from him, but her pragmatic nature would lead her to shrug at its loss and then move on.

There was Ben of course, he told himself with a wry twist of the lips. In the time they’d had together they had developed a bond of sorts, one that wasn’t entirely predicated on where the next apple was coming from; or so he’d liked to think. Where was the great black stallion now? Wandering the lanes of Burgundy, searching for him? Or had the beast had the sense to take himself back to the familiarity of the manor and the steward who knew him, where he could be reasonably content?

And what of his neighbour with the temperament to match her hair? She would rejoice at his demise, he knew; in fact, he had every confidence she would make Li Rossinholetz hers before he was cold in his grave. And her children, wild as wolf-pups? The endlessly self-confident seven year old whose lack of judgement led him to gobble down the least scrap of grudging interest from an older male, and the more discerning, less impulsive older one... There’d been earnest appraisal in the watchful grey-green eyes, and trust implied by those agonised questions on life in all its unfathomable senselessness.

But the memories of the young were short and they had their lives before them. Far better that it should be without the taint he must surely have brought to them.

 _There must be some good in you yet_ , said Meg, and Gisborne shivered, remembering what trust in him had cost her; she’d died because of it, in his arms.

“You don’t know me,” he whispered into the dark. His cheeks were wet as the other voice in his head spoke up.

 _Tell me this_ , amics, it said. _If you are so evil, why do you hurt so much_?

He still had no good answer for that. No doubt the pain was part of his punishment; that, and this infernal waiting...  Yet whoever held him, Vaisey, Richard or John, or any one of the half a hundred enemies he’d made along the way, the part of it that was to happen in this world would soon be over. It was a bleak thought to cling to, but he found himself almost looking forward to it.

Meanwhile, it seemed he was not to be allowed to endure his last hours of misery in peace. His bladder prodded him with constant reminders that he needed to piss. And asif that wasn't enough, he barked his shin on the crusted bucket when he turned to walk back to his corner.

It was only with almost superhuman self-restraint that he managed to stop himself from kicking it over in pique.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

The interior of the manor house was cool and dark; a blessing after day-long exertions compounded by the summer’s unforgiving heat. Jehane de Saint Aubin dragged the cloth from her head, eyeing the dust-smeared, cobwebbed linen with distaste as she ran tired fingers through the unruly thicket of her hair. Her scalp crawled together with the rest of her body after the retrieval of her possessions from the vermin-infested cave. A bath would be sheer heaven, even if it had to be in the old grape-treading vat again.

Yet despite the physical discomfort, she was filled with a rare content. More of her original furniture had been recovered than she’d dared to hope for and the house would soon begin to be her home again. Someone had even rescued her box of treasures; a memento or two from her childhood in Ghent, a dried nosegay from Robert’s wooing days, letters from Lys that spanned the years. She’d given orders to have the bare minimum brought in tonight after a thorough clean; beds, a table, a couple of chairs. The rest could await the morning in one of the barns. And meanwhile the lowing of a cow from the byre and the stutter and croon of poultry meant Ernoul’s trip to the fair had met with some success.

But first, that bath...

“Berthe!” she called, and the serving girl came running to the foot of the stairs. She too looked tired and flustered, with a streak of soot on a flushed cheek, but she grinned broadly when she saw her mistress.

“Drawing right fine now, that chimbly is,” she said, rubbing floured hands on her apron. “That test batch of wafers is done to a turn, mum, and there’ll be hot water for your bath in no time at all.”

Hastily bathing her face and hands, Jehane wandered down into the kitchen to admire Berthe’s handiwork and drink a scoop of spring water. She was surprised to find Thierry there at the trestle, bent over his books; on hearing footsteps he glanced up and smiled, still gloriously gap-toothed.

“Maman!” he greeted her. “Have you seen the chickens? Ham and I made them comfortable in their hutch, and Marguerida thinks she never had a cosier home.”

Marguerida?

“The new milch cow,” Bethe explained, with an eye-roll and a helpless little shrug.

“You’ll forgive me if I get back to my Latin.,” The child’s moss-agate eyes were wide and grave in a face that was almost shockingly clean. His shock of hair was slicked neatly back with water, save for the inevitable cowlick at his crown. “The Knight says I must mind my lessons if I want to get on in the world,” he added sanctimoniously.

The Knight?

Heat blossomed in Jehane’s insides, dispelling her content. This was all she needed after the day she’d just had. Was this the source of her youngest’s budding sense of responsibility? How dare that arrogant bastard take it upon himself to interfere in her children’s upbringing! To think they’d chosen to heed his words when they’d blithely ignored her, their own mother, for so long.

It was all the more infuriating that in this case the arrogant bastard was right.

“I thought I’d forbidden you to go and hang round that man,” she said with all the chill of a northerly wind. “And where is Aubrey? Not with him, I very much hope?”

Thierry shook his head. “His name is Gisborne, Maman. And I didn’t go to hang round him. I went to check on Blancheflor and see if the peaches were ripe, that’s all. I couldn’t help it if he came and hung round me.” He stared off into the distance, contemplating the incident again. “He shouts a lot, I know, but he had Master Reynault give me some bread and honey and send me home again... All that was last week, though. I’ve not been there since then.” Belatedly, he remembered that his mother’s question had been two-fold. “Aubrey was gone again when I got up this morning. Down to the village, Ham said, to help finishing up over there after the move.”

But there’d been no sighting of her firstborn all day, in the village or anywhere else. Jehane had assumed the child was busy among the outbuildings, settling in the new livestock and forking straw. Her chest tightened, the anger laced with anxiety as she faced up to a conclusion she'd reached before, but brushed aside, hoping a good scolding and a few missed meals had put things right. Her offspring had slipped her control, and it had to stop. Something must be done, if only she knew what that something was.

She was about to instruct Berthe to abandon the preparations for her bath and run down to the village to make inquiries when the very ground beneath her feet began to shake. Maid and mistress stared at each other in terror until they recognised it for what it was; the thunder of a great many hooves on the hard-baked earth of the lane. The pounding grew louder and nearer, then died away to an intermittent stamp and trample and the jingle of harness and bit.

Heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel and an impatient fist rattled the door. “Open!” a deep male voice commanded. “Open in the name of our right noble Duchess.”

The Duchess Teresa and her pilgrim band had returned from Compostela, and were here now, right on her doorstep! Jehane shot a panicked glance at the bare room and her own grimy disarray. She was in no fit state to receive guests, noble or otherwise. Then she reproached herself; the former Duchess of Burgundy was a gentle soul and would look on her situation with understanding. Swallowing, she directed Berthe to open the door, then hurry out the back to have chairs and trestle dusted and carried in. For herself, she shook out soiled and crumpled skirts, tied back her hair as best she could and moved forward, pinning a smile of welcome on her face.

Two burly guards stood on the threshold, their mail was sleek and gleaming, their surcôtes of the finest silk. Beyond them, surrounded by an immaculately turned out escort of armed men and a soberly clad steward was a lady on an exquisitely caparisoned roan palfrey of such impeccable bloodlines it outclassed Blancheflor by far. She wore robes of the deepest crimson over white samite, and her veils were gossamer fine, held in place by a chased gold band. Shrewd eyes the colour of Baltic amber looked out from a still-beautiful oval face.

“Her grace, the Duchess of Aquitaine, Dowager Queen of England,” the guards intoned, and they bowed, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Jehane sank to her knees in a reverence that owed much to a sense of deep shock and no little humiliation. To be caught like this by the Duchess Teresa had been difficult to contemplate with a steadfast heart. But to encounter the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine while dressed like a peasant straight from the fields, and without a decent stick of furniture in the place for the comfort of her royal guest...

Meanwhile, the Queen had dismounted with an ease that belied her years and was coming towards her. Jehane’s cheeks burned as she bent over the extended hand; unlike her own gnarled claws, it was soft and white and imbued with the faintest scent of spiced roses.

“Madam,” she murmured, from a constricted throat. “You do me too much honour. I am mortified to have to receive you like this.”

“You were not expecting my visit,” Eleanor pointed out reasonably, gesturing her to rise. “And nor was I; not today at any rate. I knew my dear niece’s childhood friend lived here and thought to call on you in her name, though under normal circumstances I would not have omitted to have sent word.” She arched a brow as she entered, looking around the bare hall curiously, then eased herself into one of the chairs which had miraculously appeared between the unlatching of the door and the present time. “Think nothing more of it, my lady Jehane. I am here to restore to you something you have lost before I return to my lodgings for the night. Something that is precious to you.”

She signaled to one of her red and gold-surcôted men; then she sipped at the goblet of wine her stunned hostess had served her until the guard reappeared, a tired and travel-stained young figure trailing at his side.

Jehane’s heart contracted, rage and relief twining about her innards like strangling vines. It was the missing Aubrey, and in the tunic and breeches from their journey down the Loire. Once the clothes had been practical and marginally decent; now they were torn and dirty, a perfect match for those disgraceful boots. And the face and haystack hair....…

Yet the dowager queen of England seemed to have taken the shameful incident in her stride, regarding the guilty party with an enigmatic smile that softened her austere features. “I understand too well how a child can trouble a mother’s heart,” she said. “At Eastertide I had word that my Richard lay gravely ill at Chinon, and I rushed to his side. No sooner had I satisfied myself that he was recovered than news reached me from Troyes that my daughter of Champagne was unwell. The Holy Mother be thanked,” she added, in response to Jehane’s murmured words of sympathy. “She too is now restored to health. It was at her court that I encountered the lady Sybille de Montréal and her husband, who lured me here to their castle at Chastellux-sur-Cure with promises of a tournament to lift my mood.” She paused to gesture at the sheepish Aubrey, who was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “It is from the tourney field we have come, your young sprig and I.”

Humiliation tightened the creeping tendrils about Jehane’s insides, but Aquitaine’s duchess went serenely on. “Fie, girl! Be proud! You have a resourceful child.” She waved a hand dismissively as Jehane muttered a disclaimer. ”Outward appearance is a minor consideration, and soon remedied with a little soap and water.” Again, a smile ghosted across the seamed lips. “There was question of a sword also - a child’s blade, removed in error from a cutler’s stall and left behind in the excitement of the day. Nothing would do but that it should be found and restored to its rightful owner, though it would have been easier for your young scamp here to have said nothing at all.”

A sword?

She should have known that it would come to this. Jehane closed her eyes in despair. By the time she opened them again, the culprit was executing a low bow, before skipping neatly off in the direction of the stairs while the going was good.

“We have had quite a conversation, your Aubrey and I,” Eleanor said, watching the young reprobate disappear with an inscrutable expression. “I have been led to believe you looked for me at Fontevrault. Perhaps you will like to tell me why. For truth to tell, I would have thought to find you in better straits than I see here today.”

Helplessly, Jehane glanced round at the chaos of her surroundings and her own disarray. The Queen merely shook her head, her silken veils afloat like sea-foam on the breeze. “Come, my dear." Her tone was warm and motherly. "I have been just as dusty and bedraggled in my day. No woman should be shamed by hard work -- or quick and resourceful children who know the meaning of honour.” The crimson banner of her sleeve was a lick of flame in the drab interior as she gestured about her. “Clearly all is not as it should be with you. Now you will tell me what is wrong.”

To her chagrin, Jehane felt her knees betray her. The prospect of unburdening herself at last was as tempting as it was daunting, coming as it did after a day of hard labour and the shock of finding one of the most noble ladies in the land at her door.

She sank gratefully into the indicated chair, the Queen’s tolerant smile giving her the courage to speak. “I was widowed some seven years ago, Madam.” She began to pick at a stain on her skirt, but collected herself and hastily folded her hands. “My husband left me nothing above the house and land, and it has been hard to hold things together. The rents and dues are small; too small to be an attractive prospect for an honest man with the means to solve our problems, and who would cherish my children as his own... Though I confess it would not be my first choice to marry again.”

She gestured dispiritedly at her surroundings, trying not to let her weariness of soul show through. “As it is, we returned from our journey to find our home taken over and changed out of all recognition by a man of unscrupulous intent.”

The Duchess of Aquitaine pursed her lips, an arched brow ascending. “But my niece, may God and his angels assoil her, willed you ample resources, did she not?”

Jehane swallowed, fighting the tears, the feeling of betrayal flooding back like a rolling tide. Her hands clasped till her joints cracked and the nails dug into her flesh, for the temptation to give in to the grief and hurt was strong. “It was on this that I dared to seek your counsel at the abbey,” she said when she was sure enough of her voice to speak, “Her manor of Li Rossinholetz borders my land and was to have come to me; but it seems she changed her mind.”

Her royal guest’s eyes hooded. “That is as it may be,” she said. “But had you not her letter? That should have explained things to you.”

At Jehane’s bemused stare, Eleanor spoke on into the uneasy silence, “It seems you did not. Why was I not aware of this? I was with her at the end. I knew her intentions, and it was I who arranged to have them carried out.” Her jaw tautened under the milk-white wimple’s enclosing band. “Someone has been neglectful of their duty; not least myself, for I should have overseen the matter to its conclusion. Meanwhile, I see you have suffered no little distress.”

Here the Duchess stirred restlessly, then rose to her feet, flinging out a hand as she began to pace, indicating that her hostess should remain where she was. “My dear! I fear this means you never received what was left to you in lieu.” She reached the end of a pass, then turned, skirts flying, to pace back again, her movements as quick and sure as a woman half her age. “A casket containing all her personal jewels, save for this one ring which she left to me.” She held up a thumb on which sat a large balas ruby, elaborately set in rose gold. “These jewels were of a quality and quantity that should have more than offset the value of her original bequest; it was her thought that such easily disposable assets would be more suited to your needs than the burden of a larger estate.” She paused, her expression enigmatic again. “The manor she bestowed on someone she judged had much need of it, and who has claimed it too, I believe?”

For a while Jehane could only nod, for she was buffeted by the conflicting tides of emotion that were sweeping over her. She gripped the arms of her familiar chair and held on tight, joy mingling with the relief of knowing Lys had not forgotten her after all - until the guilt of having doubted her began to creep in. “Indeed, Madam,” she managed at length. “Li Rossinholetz has had its new owner for some time now.”

Eleanor of Aquitaine re-seated herself with a sigh. Clearly, her keen intuition had not missed the tension that lay behind that last statement. “Do I take it you and he have had... words?” A frown creased the fragile skin of her brow as she gestured about her, and her lips narrowed. “It was he then who invaded your home and your land in this way?”

Jehane drew in a breath. It rankled to speak in defence of a man who had invaded her peace of mind for so long and so completely. But honour demanded nothing less. “No, Madam.” She cast a despairing glance at her surroundings; the over-large hall with its ornate stair rail and the high ceiling which had usurped the space of a solar, and which in winter would be impossible to heat. “This is the work of another, a cousin by marriage of the _prévost_ here, who hoped to force my hand by presenting his suit as a _fait accompli_. This... Gisborne... ” She pronounced the name between her teeth. “...has merely been high-handed and insulting, and has sought to steal my children’s allegiance from me.”

“And their inheritance, you must have thought.” The dowager queen of England eyed her hostess keenly, her gaze wandering to the fiery cloud of hair. “I do not doubt he got as good as he gave,” she remarked dryly, the thought appearing to entertain her a great deal. “Yet your young Aubrey speaks highly of him. The child already seems an astute judge of character ; as was my niece, or so I had always thought. Though we should not overlook the natural tendency to hero-worship at that impressionable age.” The crimson-clad shoulders lifted, and she sighed again, heavily, her amber eyes now distant and sad. “Time alone will prove who is right or wrong.”

Jehane murmured a token assent, staring ahead of her at a future that seemed bleak and uncertain indeed. She’d fought her battles with hope and the sure conviction that right was on her side. Now she was to have neither manor nor the jewels that should have been hers in its stead. The only options left to her were marriage to some or other man on the make or a slow decline into a sea of poverty that would rob her children of the future they deserved.

And along with all that was the dawning awareness that she owed the _routier_ an apology, though he still lacked none of the faults she despised in him - the arrogance, the high-handedness, the air of coiled menace that emanated from him like heat from a banked fire. It hardly made for congenial neighbourly relations.

“My dear...…” The Duchess’s voice was warm and kind. “I can see you have had more than your share of unpleasant shocks of late; and not a few this afternoon.” To Jehane’s considerable surprise, the older woman reached out, patting her gently on her clenched hands. “Be assured I shall look into the matter of the missing casket with the utmost dispatch. But meanwhile, perhaps you will allow me to…” She had raised a hand to summon her steward to her for instructions, but paused and sat back with a resigned smile as Jehane straightened her spine and compressed her lips.

“Understood,” Eleanor said. “I shall not rob you of your dignity; I should have felt much the same in your place. But you must grant that your children have been disadvantaged by a caprice of Fate. Will you allow me to extend the offer I came prepared to make, even before I knew your circumstances?” She smiled again, and the light in her eyes was a striking echo of the legendary charm of her youth. “It is a low blow to say my niece would have wished it so; nonetheless, it is the truth.”

She glanced over Jehane’s head to where a wide-eyed Thierry had emerged from the kitchen. “This boy is of an age to become a page in a great household, I see. And it is clear your young Aubrey is straining at the leash to embark on a squire’s training.”

Jehane winced and chewed at her cheek. It grieved her to curb the child’s spirit, but this was the way the world went, and it was way past time something was done. “Madam,” she said carefully. “You are kindness itself, and I am honoured beyond measure by your concern. But if you will forgive me, there is something you do not understand.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting and running again. Things should be back to normal next week.

**Chapter Twenty-eight.**

**The Dungeon**.

 Gisborne had lost all track of time.

No one had been near his cell for hours - or was it days? No more food had been brought to him, anyway; so much for his hopes of escape. Occasionally he’d been alerted by the clink of keys and the sound of heavy footfalls, but whoever it was had always passed him by. All he knew was his waste pail was not yet full.

When Meg had gone he'd sat on in the rank darkness, fingering his small curved blade and waiting for the rats to come. Finally he’d drowsed again, drifting in and out of troubled dreams where he felt the cold kiss of the axe on his nape; for this time there was no Robin there with his bow to cheat the executioner. He woke to the sick pounding of his heart, rebelling at the fate that had seemed so welcome not so very long ago.

Now he heard the approaching tramp of booted feet and a ruddy glow of torchlight flickered on the wall. The gaoler was back; what was more, a contingent of men at arms was accompanying him. This didn’t look good at all. Gisborne slipped the dagger into his sleeve as they strode towards his cell. They had come for him at last.

He sucked in a breath, pushing through the atavistic rush of blind terror to find the eye of calm; his only chance against such odds. These men must be from the _conroi_ that that captured him with such slick proficiency at the Lake of Guédelon; it was clear from the way they held themselves that they were a cut above the country boys who’d swelled the ranks back in Nottingham. He squinted at the blazon on their chests, seeking a clue as to their identity, but in the torch's wavering flame it proved impossible to make out.

"Hands behind your back!” The terse command echoed in the cavernous space. “Then turn around and put your wrists through the bars.”

But there was no food nor waste bucket to bring in, and there were too many guards. His plans were null and void. Unless... He folded his arms, lifted his chin and summoned his bravado. “Come and get me!” As he knew to his cost, angry men made mistakes.

Of course they’d thought of that one too. A guard stepped out from among his fellows with a crossbow loaded and cocked. He might miss his shot a time or two; but sooner or later the world’s worst marksman would drive a bolt home in this confined space.

Gisborne resigned himself to following orders for now. His moment would come on the stairs. The treads had been narrow, steep and uneven; a well-judged shove could send the burliest man at arms tumbling to his death. All he had to do was keep his nerve; in the resulting confusion he could be out in the bailey, sawing though his bonds and finding somewhere to hide until the portcullis opened and he could slip through.

Then he heard the unmistakeable clank of chains, and as the iron cuffs closed round his wrists, he was not so sure. Fate was intent on robbing him of everything, it seemed, down to his very last hope. Yet he straightened his spine defiantly as they led him through the wardroom and onto the stairs to begin the long ascent. When everything else was gone, there was still something left to him; something no one could take away without his permission.

His pride.

The initial encounter with Prince John had festered inside him ever since; snatched from his bed in the middle of the night, flung at his captor’s feet to cower like a whipped dog! He would not let that happen a second time. Better to go down fighting, spitting and snarling and taking some of them with him rather than face such humiliation again.

He gave them several turns of the stair to allay their suspicions, the worn stone slick against his booted feet. Then he pretended to miss his step, lurching heavily against the guard at his side, hoping to tip him forward into the man that climbed ahead of them. But again experience had trained them to expect such ploys; he was seized by the collar from behind and jerked brutally upright, and after that it descended into the confusion of a free-for-all.

At first the chains worked to his advantage, whirling like a flail as he spun. There was a winded gasp as one man folded forward, caught in the midriff; another groaned as his forearm went up to protect his face, the force of the blow driving the links of his hauberk into his flesh. But these were moves born of desperation, and no match for these hardy professionals. They dragged him, still kicking and cursing, up the remaining steps and out into the light of high afternoon.

Of which day? Not that it mattered overmuch. The sun struck bright and hot from curtain walls and cobblestones, and Gisborne blinked, half-blind after the clammy darkness of the prison cell. Then he was bundled through another door and down a long corridor. Here, torches blazed in sconces at every few paces, lighting walls hung with tapestries showing scenes of the tourney and the hunt. Where were they taking him? And to whom?

He was bone-weary now; bruised and battered, sick with apprehension and faint from hunger and lack of sleep. His body craved nothing more than to crawl off somewhere dark and quiet and let himself pass out; yet his will rejected the notion, lending him the strength to renew his struggles as a high double door was flung open and he was frog-marched inside.

“Get off me!”

The plangent music of a lute broke off as his cry rang out in the lofty hall. Rough hands seized him, flinging him to the rushes in an undignified heap.

The sensation of déjà vu, with all its helplessness and humiliation, closed about his heart like the fingers of a mailed fist.

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**

Jehane was sitting on the bed; her own bedstead and mattress at last.

There was comfort in each familiar dip and hillock as she inventoried the linens bought from the proceeds of the furniture sale. She’d been glad to be rid of the heavy, elaborate pieces; fortunately such things were much sought after by the upwardly mobile of Avallon and its environs.

The manor house at Vignoles would never be her old home again. The loss of her solar rankled, a sacrifice to the lofty pretentiousness of the new main hall, but her surroundings no longer nagged at her like a rotting tooth. A rush of gratitude ran through her at the loyalty of her tenants, who’d saved what they could for her, then worked day and night to set all to rights. There was added peace of mind in knowing they had taken possession of solid new cottages at last, and Blancheflor was back in a stable of her own.

She ran her hand over each satisfying pile, counting softly to herself. Ernoul had reached the age when he should be retired to his own front step to watch the world go by, yet he was still the nearest thing to a steward she had, and he’d carried out her marketing instructions to the letter. There was enough good linen here to last for several years, she determined, returning her attention to her inventory. There were a couple of dress lengths, of fine amber and russet wool, and a packet of remnants that would do for the children too.

“Lincoln Green, they calls it,” Ernoul had informed her proudly. “All the way from acrorst the Narrow Sea, mum. Not that any of it’s green, mind, but I reckon there’s no accounting for they furrin folks and I got ‘em for next to nowt, seeing as how they’re odd bits of off-cuts from the bolt.” There was even a pair of soft house shoes included in the haul. She would give them to Berthe later; the serving girl’s precious Yule-tide slippers had been lost in the confusion when Martin and his men rode in.

Yet this mechanical task, these mundane concerns with their memories of inconsequential chatter were doing an imperfect job of keeping less comfortable thoughts at bay. A storm of conflicting emotions had borne down on her with the royal duchess’s visit; it was a joy to be reconciled in her mind with the companion of her childhood, but the loss of Li Rossinholetz had been a crushing blow.

Nevertheless, there was something to be said for knowing exactly where she stood. It was all very well to decide in a fit of bravado that she would go to Paris and present her case to the highest authorities in the land. But when it came to practicalities  - how to travel, where to stay along the way, the right people to see to ensure a fair hearing- it was a different matter altogether.

She'd enjoyed more than her share of good fortune so far. the lady Maheult had smoothed her way through the salons and chancery offices of Dijon, while the opportunity to journey down to Fontevrault had presented itself as if by magic, almost as soon as the suggestion arose. But it was unrealistic to expect this luck to continue. The tirewoman was no longer here to ferry her a good part of the way; by now she'd be caught up in the preparations to receive a new mistress, with all the myriad details of planning that a ducal wedding entailed, and no time to spare for anything else.

No, the battle for Li Rossinholetz was lost and it was time to put it out of her mind. She must pin her hopes on the success of the _vendange_ to come. Thus far the weather had cooperated perfectly, the occasional shower hardly more than a refreshing breath after the heat, but she was all too aware of the carnage an untimely storm could bring. The deluges of last autumn that had blurred the town records had come after the grapes had been gathered in; though there was much gloomy talk of seasons when rain and wind had driven the fruiting vines into a morass of mud. One year, hail had fallen, big as hen’s eggs, ripping tender leaves and ripening clusters to shreds.

But this she must leave in the hands of God. Henceforth she would be spared the nervous energy of planning her next move in pursuit of her claim. Nor would she be required to lock horns with the man whose lands marched with her own. It would be too much to think he would be magnanimous in victory, but that should not concern her.

She need never set eyes on him again.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-nine.**

**A Great Hall.**

“Well met, Messire de Gisborne.”

The voice was cool and modulated - and completely strange to him. A split brow leaked blood into the corner of his eye and he was powerless to brush it away; nevertheless he forced himself to look up through the matted strands of his hair to see the austere lines of a face glimpsed once before, but fleetingly.

It had been back in the shire of Nottingham, at a time which was soon to bring much grief to him. Their paths had crossed in a forest glade and they'd exchanged a glance - she harried but grimly determined as she rode on alone at a spanking pace; he incredulous, for he'd thought he was imagining things.

But duty had been calling. The Sheriff's mercenaries were waiting to be settled in Locksley village and he'd set the conundrum aside for the nonce. His discovery of the Nightwatchman's identity later that day, the bitter knowledge of Marian's betrayal, had driven all memory of the encounter from his mind. Yet he could not fail to recognise his interlocutor now, from the glint of the chased gold band and the unmistakable carriage of her head. Not John then, nor was it Richard; the truth was perhaps more terrible.

It was _Thesaurus_ _Patriae -_ their royal mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

“Once I likened you to a rogue wolf,” she remarked. “I see you have lost none of your propensity to bite.”

“Madam.” Her captain spoke up from Gisborne’s side. “He was a little tardy in accepting your invitation.”

England’s dowager queen looked down at her prisoner from her seat on the dais, and an acidulated smile touched her lips. “Perhaps I should have had you gelded when you were taken. God knows, I have just cause.” She turned to address the guard again. “No matter, Le Boeuf, he is here now, though our conversation is long overdue. Is it not... _Sir Guy_?

Gisborne’s blood boiled and froze at one and the same time. The last two words had been spoken with such venom they could only be a deliberate jibe. Yet if she was aware of the pain his forename and title caused him with its echoes of the voice of the women he'd loved and lost so despicably, he was in more trouble than he’d thought. He glanced swiftly down before she saw the lingering fire in his gaze and she laughed; no old woman’s cackle this, but resonant, full... and bitter as aloes.

“Come,” she said. “I know it is no maidenly modesty that veils your eyes. You are the man who twice attempted to murder my dearest son, and seduced my beloved niece at a time when she should have been caring for her soul. You must permit an old woman her petty vengeances.”

She gestured her guard forward and Gisborne steeled himself for a heavy boot in the ribs; instead she directed the man to fill a goblet from the flagon at her side and hold it to his lips. His throat ached as they touched the cool deliciousness, but his pride restricted him to a single sip before he dismissed the cup with a shake of his head.

The Duchess Eleanor clucked her tongue. “The disposition of a mule,” she commented sourly, and her tone lost none of its harshess as she went on. “But to return to our... discussion. I grant you my Richard’s own brother attempted much the same as you; moreover, it is at my niece’s behest that you and I find ourselves here today.” She paused and frowned. “That scowl tells me you have some quarrel with that. Or are you merely uncomfortable there on your knees?”

She indicated a low stool at the foot of the steps with a brusque wave of her hand. “Sit. And speak.”

And Gisborne found, as so many had done before him, that it was impossible to resist the command of that imperious voice. He struggled to his feet and sat, though his limbs were stiffened and cramping by now and reluctant to obey him. Speaking, however, was not so simple. What did a murderer say to the mother of the king he’d tried to kill?

He swallowed and lowered his head again, wishing his pride had allowed him more than a mouthful of the wine. “I admit to my crimes,” he managed at last through a throat that was rough and dry. “Every one of them. I was ready to die for them, in Nottingham. It was my only hope of making my peace with the world, and I welcomed it.”

Resentment flared with the memory, overriding the last shreds of his instinct for self-preservation. “No one had the right to take that away from me and condemn me to months of pain instead. _No one_. Countess or no countess.” He glared up into the uncompromising face with its hooded eyes and hard mouth. “Nor did I ask for a manor in Burgundy, and a hotly contested one at that!” His lip curled. “Your _beloved niece_ knew my family had been dispossessed when I was a youth. It must have amused her to think I’d be living with the prospect all over again.”

“You ungrateful bastard!”

Gisborne flinched as Aquitaine’s royal lady came to her feet and swept down the steps towards him with the energy and momentum of a woman of half her years.

“You ungrateful _bastard_!” she repeated from between clenched teeth, with such vehemence that he flinched again. “God assoil her, she had a most tender regard for you!”

At this, he stared, stunned, into eyes that were shards of amber ice.

“She had persuaded herself that you and she had much in common.” The Duchess’s beringed hands were on her hips as she pursued her onslaught, looking down her still-elegant nose at him; and for the moment he could only wonder how a frail old woman of no great height could dominate a man of his size, and so completely. “She wanted you to have everything she never had in life - a place to call home, and the freedom to enjoy it.” She exhaled forcefully, her scrutiny burning into his flesh. “I presume this maudlin self-righteousness of yours did not deter you from helping yourself to the jewels my courier carried, along with the title deeds and other documents that were meant for you.”

Jewels? What jewels?

His bewilderment must have spoken for itself, for the Queen returned to her chair and sat back, a brow raised, awaiting further explanation.

“Your courier was ambushed and robbed… Madam,” he said, the honorific rising belatedly to his lips. “By the time he reached the lodge, he had nothing but the stallion and my papers. He died of his wounds soon after, and is buried in the churchyard at St Léger-sous-Beuvray; the steward there would confirm all this for you.”

Eleanor of Aquitaine clucked her tongue again, still fixing him with that trenchant gaze. ”And no one thought to tell me? Heads may roll for this."

She rose to her feet and approached him once more. "But not this one; not yet at least.” There was the merest hint of frosty humour in her eyes at last as she put a cool finger under his chin, tipping up his face to take her measure of him. Then she shook her head, and for a moment her stern mouth softened. “This I must reluctantly leave in its place, or I shall be unable to face my niece when we meet in the hereafter.” She beckoned her captain forward, directing him to unlock her prisoner’s chains; then she waved the guard back to stand against the wall.

“ _Ailàs_ , Messire de Gisborne,” she said when the man was out of earshot. “Life is cruel, as my Lysette was wont to say. She was deluded enough to think her encounter with you gave her something to lend meaning to her last months. She wished to return the favour, that is all.” Her jaw tightened visibly under the linen band of her veils. "Misguided of her, I know," she added tartly, “But there it is.”

Gisborne stirred uncomfortably on his lowly stool.

“She asked me to watch over you.” Eleanor’s glacial tone had thawed somewhat, and she stared into the distance, seeming to relive raw memories of that time. “ _To his greatest good_ ; those were her very words.  So if my operatives were over-zealous in robbing you of your honourable demise, they mistook my orders and her intentions. Pain and long suffering were never what she had in mind for you.”

Gisborne’s throat moved and his tongue came out to moisten dry lips but she raised a finger in admonition before he could speak. “No! That is no invention of a fond aunt; that too I had from her directly. Nor did she foresee this dispute with your neighbour; she thought the matter settled in a manner favourable to all, with a bequest of rich jewels that should have more than compensated for what came to you instead.”

Her voice softened further and somehow this disconcerted him more than her icy contempt. “Do her the justice of remembering her kindly, if you remember her at all. However,” she went on, briskly changing tack, “This does not solve your differences with the lady Jehane. There is another with a mulish disposition, for she remains out of pocket yet will not accept my offers of compensation for her loss...”

But Gisborne sat on, incapable of further speech. His head had begun to swim, with tiredness and hunger and not a little delayed shock. Life had deprived him of much indeed - including the understanding of what he’d had in his brief connection with the Countess of Vézelay. As for the status of his shrew of a neighbour, that was the last thing he needed to think about. It was enough of a struggle to remain upright on his stool.

But he was spared the necessity of processing all this under the watchful eyes of Eleanor of Aquitaine; the golden gaze of a goshawk dispassionately scanning its prey. Her nose wrinkled in sudden distaste and she pulled a kerchief from a sleeve to hold to her nose. “Faugh!” she said, and coughed. “You stink! But that is more my fault than yours, as is the fact that you are faint with hunger and lack of sleep. Go,” she ordered. “The Lady Sybille who is chatelaine here will have arranged a more comfortable chamber for you now than the one you have occupied thus far. Bathe, eat and sleep. We shall have more to say to each other on the morrow before you depart.”

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

The rhythmic clatter of wood against wood floated up from the stable yard. Blended with the other sounds of a living manor, it sparked no interest in the woman who sat at the window, staring unseeingly into space.

Jehane had come up to her chamber to wash and change after a second day spent stowing her recent purchases and arranging her retrieved furniture. Setting her house in order, she thought grimly, remembering the _routier’_ s scornful words. Well, it was a beginning; the rest of her newly-imagined future would follow in due course. Tired and dusty, she’d decided to take the weight off her feet for a moment; now she roused herself as a shrill cry rang out, realising she must have been sitting there for longer than she'd thought.

“Pax!”

It was Thierry’s voice.

What now? Belatedly, she realised the clattering had died away and it had been quiet for far too long; never a good sign where the children were concerned. Reluctantly she turned to kneel on the settle and peer out of the window. They were darting in and out of the outbuildings, scattering gravel and affronted chickens as they went, though it was impossible not to envy them their enthusiasm and boundless energy. At last Thierry was cornered in the angle between the cowshed and the fence, and a muscle ticked in Jehane’s cheek as the clattering sound that had stalked the periphery of her thoughts was renewed.

Pride mingled with guilt as she watched him wield the stout wooden stick he was using for a blade, and making a businesslike job of it too. Which was only right and proper, and past time that he should begin his training; it was another of those things she’d put off - perhaps because she'd seen little hope of finding him an honourable position before the Duchess Eleanor's kind offer had come along.

No. What made her heart sink to unplumbed depths was how he must have learned so much already.

Both of them.

They halted the bout as she called down, their upturned faces rosy with exertion and childish innocence.

“Playing at tourneys,” Thierry announced, panting, and saluted her with his makeshift blade. “I can’t stop to talk to you now, Maman, or Aubrey will win all the prizes.”

Jehane looked on in dismay as the combat resumed. They circled each other, dancing in and out, Aubrey calling out terse instructions as the tips of their sticks probed and reached; until Thierry was disarmed with a practised twist of the wrist. The improvised weapon was flicked up from the ground with the side of a boot, and returned ‘hilt’ first, with a bow and a mocking smile that was all the _routier_ ’s own.

Dear God in heaven! After all she'd said, and all she'd told him!

Jehane subsided onto the settle, fanning herself with a hand, and not merely because the sun had beaten down on her face when she poked her head outside. Some lemon water would cool her, she thought blindly. Though it wouldn’t wash away the tightness in her throat, brought on by the knowledge that the _gurt black devil_ ’s influence had exceeded the worst of her fears. He must have spent hours with them, tutoring them, worming his way into their thoughts.

Her mind racing, she trailed down the stairs to the kitchen, calling for Berthe, but the serving girl was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance outside located her out in the yard with her back towards the window, watching the proceedings with her trug of vegetables set down at her side. Jehane eyed the precious lemons in their basket on the trestle but her need was too immediate to pander to such refinements of taste.

Instead, she filled a beaker from the perspiring terra cotta pot and gulped it down.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty.**

**The Stronghold of Chastellux, the Lady Sybille de Montréal’s Bower.**

The bath and food were followed by a night of sleep so deep Gisborne knew nothing between the laying of his head on the pillow and the waking to full daylight. Morning found him relieved of the sick, faint sensation that had overcome him the previous evening in Chastellux’ great hall, yet his mind was no less crowded with unravelling skeins of thought as he was ushered into a solar decked with rich tapestries on every wall.

This led into a small jewel-box of a room, more usually the Lady’s bower, he surmised. Here the walls were painted in bright hues, giving the impression of windows looking out onto stylised landscapes rendered in shades of lapis, cornelian and jade. A small fire burned on a tiled hearth in a scrollwork basket, for the comfort of its glowing coals rather than from any need of heat, while the floor was covered with the exquisite luxury of many-coloured carpets, something he’d only seen before in the Holy Land.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was seated in the single real embrasure, gazing out into the morning; the sun limned her austere profile and touched the tips of her coronet with pale flame. She turned as he entered, her expression hidden from him as he knelt, her features in shadow against the light. Then she beckoned him forward, snorting softly when he hesitated on the brink of the expanse of crimson wool, with its patterns of exotic flowers and birds in blues and greens and golds. “My late uncle of Antioch told me they are considered to improve with wear,” she said. “They are prized the more when the colours mellow from their initial rawness.”

She waved him to a chair that was set beside her, appraising him with her unblinking goshawk stare as he stepped cautiously across the rich tapis and sat. “Better,” was the grudging verdict, after a sniff and a twitch of the lips. “So. What do you have to say for yourself, Messire Wolf, now you have had time and space to gather your thoughts?”

Gisborne could only think that this was an over-optimistic assessment of his powers of recuperation. On the subject of his crimes, there was nothing more to be said; as for the rest, he was unable to grasp the enormity of it as yet.

The Queen nodded slowly, her face still unreadable. “Wolf you may be,” she pronounced, “but you are not without honour or pride. You do not blame others for your crimes or make empty excuses for yourself.” She folded her jewelled hands on her russet silk lap and leaned towards him, a faint odour of spiced roses reaching him as her hawk-eyes pinned him to his seat. “Your sins are many and your guilt is great; but you have been used to serve the ambition of those more powerful than yourself.” For a moment she paused; then she went on, her voice warming slightly from its initial winter-chill. “What is more, you do not lack chivalry. Last night I accused you of seducing my niece, when I knew from her own lips that this was not the case. Yet you did not seek to redeem yourself by sullying her memory.”

She paused again and Gisborne finally dared to breathe as she sat back, the harsh expression fading from her lined face. “I cannot speak for my sons, who would have their own bones to pick with you,” she said at length. “But they will not hear of you from me. As for myself, you may consider yourself free from my enmity.” She held up a hand in case he was tempted to speak. “For the sake of the kindness my Lysette bore you.”

Gisborne’s eyelids pricked. “She did me honour I did not deserve,” he said, finding his voice at last, though it emerged hoarse and thick from the depths of a half- closed throat.

“No,” Eleanor said baldly. “You did not.” A sigh escaped her, stirring her veil, and the balas ruby on her thumb caught the light from the window behind her as she brushed the gossamer silk from her cheek. “But if such a gift should come to us unasked, then our reparation must be to live well, do you not think? You are content as you can be at Li Rossinholetz?” she asked then, a brow ascending. “It was my niece’s place of refuge, her solace when she was overburdened with care.” She rested her chin on a hand, regarding him with hooded eyes. “She hoped it would be something of that for you; but Life had other ideas, it seems.”

Gisborne clenched his jaw.This was not the time or place to open his mouth on that particular subject, despite the fierceness of his quarrel with the caprices of Fate, in the form of a red-headed termagant.

But the Queen's thoughts had strayed there too. “Of course, there is a simple solution. Take the Lady Jehane to wife.”

He blinked and blinked again, his beleaguered brain struggling to keep up with her; a woman in her seventh decade but streets ahead of him in cunning and strategy. Then his head rocked back as her words organized themselves into meaning and he grasped the import of what she’d said.

“The two estates combined would be greater than the sum of the parts,” she was pointing out, the voice of cool reason and practicality.

It was impossible, unthinkable! His every instinct rebelled against it as he heard her rich chuckle ring out. “I have seen for myself that she is a woman with a mind of her own, and that mind does not like you,” she commented dryly. “But she is still young, with children to raise and worse wolves than you at her door. It would be in her best interests to accept your suit.”

The suggestion was so bizarre it made him forget himself so far as to roll his eyes, before lowering them again in haste, recalling where he was and who he was with.

Eleanor shook a finger at him. “Do not bat your lashes at me, young man! Many a marriage has been built on shakier ground, as I know full well and to my cost. Look on it as a business arrangement, as I was forced to do. You would have an heir ready made, so you would be free to make your bed and take your pleasure elsewhere, if that is your preference. However,” she added thoughtfully, “If you would take an old woman’s advice, it might be wiser to grit your teeth and consolidate your assets. Children are vulnerable, as I have found and you may know yourself.” Her lips thinned as she saw he was unsure of her meaning here. “Then it may or may not grieve you to learn that an infant son of yours and his mother succumbed to a fever that ravaged the Glasson estate last year. And seven is still a vulnerable age.”

Here was another of his sins come home to roost on tattered and sullied wings. He'd felt little but relief at the time when the problem of Annie was taken out of his hands; salving his conscience with the thought that the boy and his mother were comfortable and safe, then putting them out of his mind. It was no more and no less than many of his peers had done, after all. Now the depth of his regret caught him off guard and it took some time before the rest of the royal duchess'  words struck home.

An heir, in the singular... And seven years old? What of the very vital elder brother of ten? There had to be some mistake.

The Queen’s mellow laughter rang out in the bower again. “Though I concede your hands would be full enough with that girl,” she said with much relish. “Already she is more of a man than that young brother of hers.”

That _girl_?

Aubrey, of the cropped hair, the tattered breeches and scuffed boots? No! It couldn’t be… _She_ couldn’t be...

“And if you seek more than that in life,” Eleanor was murmuring with a sad smile. “Well my dear, that is given to few of us.”

Gisborne was still reeling from this second dumbfounding disclosure in as many days as she rose and put out a hand. Fighting for composure, he struggled to his feet and bent over it.

England's dowager queen reached out to brush his cheek with a fingertip. “As I promised you, Messire Wolf, you will be free of my interfering henceforth,” she said. “But remember; should you ever have need, the lord Anséric will know how to reach me.” She pressed something small and hard into his hand and stood back. “Your horse has made his way here and awaits you.” A fleeting smile played over her lips, lifting the corners of her mouth. “Fortunately, Ėbėne knows me of old, but I have been hard put to contain his impatience.”

Then at last he was stumbling from the room, her final words ringing in his ears.

“Go now, and live well. For her sake.”

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

The spring water was refreshing but it was doing little to sweeten Jehane’s thoughts.

Aubrey, brought home by no less a personage than the Duchess of Aquitaine herself, and from a tourney to boot!  The impulse had been strong to strip off the disreputable clothes and burn them at once, then lock her rebellious firstborn in a store room with nothing but bread and water till the day she was wed. Yet unaccountably, the English queen appeared to have warmed to the child.

“Life is not easy for our sex,” she’d said. “As you and I both I know.” The older woman’s gaze had grown distant, hardening as she seemed to revisit scenes from her own turbulent past. “Let her have her freedom while she can, my lady Jehane. Let her run and tumble and shout like the healthy young animal she is. As you once did, or so I hear,” she murmured, the severe features softening with a sudden smile. ”My Lysette spoke of your childhood escapades with much remembered joy.” She'd reached out a hand to pat her hostess’ arm. “Better to be strong and resourceful, my dear, than weak and cowed and helpless to defend one’s self against the malice of others. With careful management, discretion will come with maturity.”

But childish high spirits were one thing, safely confined within the walls of the ducal palace at Ghent. When they ranged over town and countryside alike, it was another matter altogether. Emboldened by the Duchess’ gracious manner, Jehane had ventured to confide the worry. “I blame myself, Madam,” she'd said. “They have grown up in a place where they are known and indulged by everyone. It has made them over-confident and heedless of boundaries, and I fear I have not made time to monitor them as I should.”

Jehane closed her eyes as she sat in her kitchen now, her mother’s heart shuddering at what could have befallen a headstrong girl who lacked all sense of danger; the crowds, the explosive combination of spirited horses, lethal weapons and the hot blood of riff-raff from every dukedom from Normandy to Provence…

Inevitably, this returned her thoughts to the man who’d stolen her peace of mind from the moment she set eyes on him. A splinter of chill shot though her as she remembered all hope of Li Rossinholetz was gone, try though she might to convince herself that the cessation of hostilities was a blessing in disguise; a chance to return to reality, an end to the temptation of chasing precarious schemes.

_The manor she bestowed on someone she judged had much need of it..._

The Duchess Eleanor’s words echoed inside her head, reminding her of that evening in the abbey guest house at Tours, and the minstrel Thibault’s frustratingly inadequate account of Lys’ stay in Nottingham. What needs could a venal sheriff’s boorish enforcer have that her gentle but perceptive friend had seen fit to fulfil?

Jehane worried at her cheek with her teeth as she worried at the conumdrum for the hundredth time and was forced to admit defeat. Whatever Lys’ motives had been, she’d probably never know what they were. Meanwhile, the fact remained that Li Rossinholetz belonged to the _routier_ by right; her accusations of theft and conspiracy had been wild, shrill – and unjust.

A Barfleur fishwife, he had called her... Her face burned at the memory; she'd congratulated herself on her self-restraint in her confrontation with Master Laurent Martin, but her much-cherished moral high ground had been swept from under her feet in her battles with this other infuriating man. Honour demanded that she make reparation, yet moment by moment the prospect grew more humiliating to contemplate.

By great good fortune, he was still not back from wherever he’d taken himself before the tourney began - to the bottommost pit of hell, she wished fervently, never to return. Gone he might be, yet he’d left an indelible mark; how else had those children learned to handle their improvised weapons with such aplomb?

She would be the first to admit that Aubrey’s breeches and slingshot were a sign of her own neglect, dismissed as a passing phase; something she and Lys might have relished at that age, given the chance. But swordplay? She supposed she should have known, given the Duchess Eleanor’s mention of the coveted weapon from the cutler’s stall. Now here before her eyes was the undeniable proof that her insufferable neighbour had dared to teach not only her son, but her daughter, to handle a blade. Her _daughter_! Only God and his angels knew what else he’d been teaching them!

“They have become too much taken with Master Gisborne,” she’d told the English queen, biting off the derogatory term of address with a savage kind of pleasure. “They have become sly and evasive since he came, forever sneaking off to seek him out.”

She sprang to her feet now and paced the kitchen, sifting through all their smug allusions to the Knight's opinion on this and that; the voluntary confession of the broken window, the unprecedented attention to lessons and personal appearance; the solemn courtesy when visitors called. How dare they hang on his every word when her own attempts at instruction went clean over their stubborn heads!

“Children crave heroes, my dear.” the dowager queen had said. “When all else fails, they cut them for themselves from whatever cloth they find to hand.” She’d taken a delicate sip of wine, regarding her hostess intently over the rim of her cup. “There is one sure way to take the bloom from forbidden fruit. Let them see enough of him to weigh the bad with the good. Familiarity breeds contempt... Or so I have often found," she'd added with a tight smile. "My brief time in your Aubrey's company assures me they will have the perception to judge where their best interests lie.”

On the face of it, it was wise advice. What made Jehane recoil with every fibre of her being was the suggested route to this happy conclusion.

“Marry the man.”

Eleanor of Aquitaine had dusted her palms together in the manner of a canny market woman bent on sealing a deal. “There is the answer to your dilemma. Your manor will prosper financially with the support of his, and you will have a protector for yourself and your children.” She gestured at the raw new hall with its over-elaborate carving and heavy beams, grimacing at the echo of her voice in the half-empty room. “Life is cruel, Lady Jehane, as my Lysette so often said. The mongrel curs that did this will keep circling, awaiting their chance to snatch the juicy marrow bone. With him at your side, I’ll wager you’ll never face such a disruption again; he has the fire for that and more, or so I am led to believe.”

As if his fire wasn’t more than half of the problem! Robert had shattered her illusions of the knightly virtues with his self-absorption and feckless ways, but he’d had the saving grace of being away from home for most of the time. Life full-time with a man of this Gisborne’s high-handed nature was her idea of a living hell.

He’d come to his door straight from his bath, that night when she went to confront him over the drastic changes at Vignoles, water dripping from the ends of his long hair and down his naked chest. And he’d had the gall to pull her against his body so he could whisper his poison in her ear! Jehane’s fingers curled with the urge to rake her nails down that sneering face. Her grip tightened on her cup instead, till her knuckles grew white and the embossed metal cut into her palm.

“A marriage in name only, if that is your preference,” Eleanor had suggested bracingly. “Make your arrangements with him, and I will have a binding contract drawn up to that effect.” The shrewd amber eyes grew opaque. “Though if you should change your mind, I hear he is not ill-favoured.”

“He is ill- _tempered_!”

The retort had slipped out before Jehane’s good sense could remind her to whom she was speaking. She'd collected herself hastily, ducking her head in apology. “Madam,” she began. “You are gracious to concern yourself in my affairs. But there is too much enmity between us for any kind of marriage to work.”

An elegant brow took wing. “A pair of mules in harness, indeed. I see your point.” The Duchess’s lips had twitched, in distaste at the thought or suppressed amusement, it had been impossible to tell. “You must grant that you cannot continue as you are, and many a marriage has had a less auspicious start.”

Jehane looked up from this uncomfortable reverie as the kitchen door swung open. Berthe stood in the narrow wedge of light that angled across the flags.

“Them childer!” the girl remarked, shaking her head. “They’ll be signing up for the duke’s own guard afore you know it. Well, mum, I’d best get the soup on. Though with the state the kitchen garden’s in, it’s wonder there’s anything left to pick… Looks as if as an army’s been marchin' through.” With a sigh she heaved the contents of her trug onto the table and went to rummage in a drawer for a paring knife.

Better her own hands should be busy, Jehane told herself, than to keep turning the same things over and arriving at an impasse every time. After all, there were bolster cases to stitch and new sheets to hem. Sighing, she made her way up the stairs again.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-one.**

**The Lanes of Burgundy.**

From the stronghold of Chastellux to the environs of Avallon it was less than a morning’s ride, but Gisborne was in no hurry to be home. The track wove a pleasant path, sheltered from the pitiless eye of the August sun by frequent stands of oak and ash, and he allowed the stallion to amble through the dappled shade at a dawdling pace.

His recent experiences had shocked and unnerved him, knocking him off-kilter so he didn't know what, or even how, to think. The abduction on the banks of the lake at Guédelon, convincing him his criminal past had caught up with him at last... The underground dungeon with its looming threat of torture and death... And last but by no means least, the confrontations with the formidable Eleanor of Aquitaine, who had boned and filleted him in short order; the cold anger of a wronged mother and queen alternating with the bluff impatience of a sergeant-at-arms who despaired of knocking a clueless recruit into shape.

 _You ungrateful bastard_...

A muscle jumped in his cheek as a stray splinter of sunlight caught the balas ruby ring, sitting so incongruously on his left last finger, and her rebuke rang hollowly in his mind.

 _She had a most tender regard for you_...

How could this be true? She was the Lady Alix, Countess of Vézelay and niece to a queen, and their paths had crossed and diverged again in the space of three short days. Nor was he the perfect knight of women’s dreams for her to have woven him into one of her precious Saracen tales. Kamar al Akmar on his ebony horse, for the love of all that was holy!

Yet how was he supposed to know what it was to be held in a woman's heart? A man like him, a bully and a blackguard who had plotted with a venal master to rob her of her virtue as a means to strip her of her wealth. Hadn't he yearned, long and painfully, for Marian - dared to think his interest was returned through the sheer force of his own desire? And yet how wrong he had been.

 _Could mere beauty have bound you so tightly_ , remarked the voice in his head, _if your feelings had met with no response at all?_

He snorted, the stallion echoing his reaction as his rider’s fingers tightened their grasp on his mane.

 _You are no clod_ , amics; the voice persisted, its cool tone spiced with gentle amusement as it went on, _except when you insist on pickling your brains with my wine_...

Gisborne blinked. Had that last teasing caveat ever passed her mortal lips? Fragments of her conversation had been haunting him for weeks; was he starting to put words into her mouth now, some rogue element of his imagination prolonging the dialogue against his conscious will?

The thought was uncomfortable and he turned his mind to another revelation, a frown etched deep between his brows.

 _Watch over him... to his greatest good_..;

So it was not at her instigation that he’d lived on in suffering after the terrible injuries sustained beneath Nottingham’s keep. It was all due to a misunderstanding, a failure in communication between parties charged with the task. Nor had she played a cynical game of fast and loose with the tenancy of her manor, as he’d convinced himself for so long. Fate had been toying with him instead, and making a fine job of it too. So why with the burden of her enmity lifted from him did he feel cracked and empty inside, like a stream bed in a drought?

Unwittingly his knees increased their grip on the stallion’s flanks, the beast shying in protest as understanding came to him at last. Rage and resentment were twin strands of the rope he’d clung to since the ill-omened day at Locksley when his family and his heritage had been stolen away from him. It was what had kept him strong through the hand-to-mouth existence in France that followed, and the years under Vaisey’s black-nailed thumb. Of late it had been his life-line as he trod the narrow bridge that led him from the gates of death, back into the world of the living. Without the dark security of its support, he felt naked and exposed... Lost somehow, adrift like a rudderless boat.

 _Go now, and live well_...

The last words he’d thought to hear from the redoubtable Duchess, and easier said than done. The dispute with his fishwife of a neighbour was settled, and in his favour, once and for all, but the hostility between them would live on. With her hopes of Li Rossinholetz gone, the lady of Vignoles had lost her own rope of support. As for the suggested method of making peace between them...…

_Take the Lady Jehane to wife..._

That had to be as unwelcome to the wilful baggage as it was to himself.

And talking of wilful baggages... Another thought began to nag at him, one he had pushed to the back of his mind as too unpalatable to contemplate, yet refusing to be ignored at last. Something that raised the familiar red banners behind his eyes.

That girl!

That two-faced, manipulative little besom he’d taken first for a peasant boy and then for Vignoles’ son and heir. And she’d allowed him to go on doing so, carrying on the deception long beyond the bounds of common decency.

As the rage and the resentment flooded his brain, he was more himself again.

 

It was late afternoon by the time he reached Li Rossinholetz, and he was parched and sweating as he unlatched the gate and kneed the stallion into the yard. He rubbed the beast down, saw he was supplied with fodder and fresh water, then went to ground inside the house, calling for a bath and food.

Reynault appeared at the run, but Gisborne waved the anxious queries aside, heading upstairs to strip off his clothes and immerse himself. He leaned back, eyes closed, his head resting on a folded cloth on the rim of the tub, waiting for the cool of the water and his weariness to chase his unsettling thoughts away.

Blessedly, he must have drowsed off. The next he knew, the water was stone cold and a tray had appeared on a stool at the side of the bath; a manchet loaf, a cold roast fowl, a flagon of wine. Yet the good bread and the tender meat might have been sawdust in his mouth. He snatched up the wine-jug and took himself over to the bed instead, where he lay naked, drinking to stave off the  thoughts until the empty flask had him dragging on his breeches and stumbling down to the buttery for more.

By evening he’d regressed to his early days at the manor, snarling at further offers of food and sprawling on the settle, nursing a succession of jugs of wine until the early hours. Yet whenever the drunken mists parted, the memories danced there like capering clowns.

Faces swimming before him; watchful grey eyes, deep and dark and lit with impish amusement; a hawkish amber scrutiny, merciless and dry... Flushing, he turned from their appraisal to encounter a steady grey-green gaze that regarded him assessingly from beneath a sandy thatch of hair.

_Does it hurt them when they stick it in ?_

Christ on the cross!

Gisborne’s gut griped. He could no longer blot out the stark reality of all he’d said to the wretched child. Blunt soldier's talk - lengthy discourses on the tawdry realities of a male existence, unfit for a young maiden’s ears. If any man had spoken of such things to a daughter of his, he’d have severed the relevant part from his body, sliver by bleeding sliver. The chit would probably be ruined for life.

Assuming he didn't slice her lying tongue into bite-sized bits beforehand and finish the job himself.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane started from troubled dreams with the impression that she’d hardly slept at all. Heart racing, she sat up, knuckling at her eyes as the trumpeted challenge of a warhorse rang out and was answered eagerly from her stable yard.

Sleep-dazed, she stumbled over to the window. Lys’ great black stallion was out in the lane, battering at the gate, his cries mounting to an ear-splitting scream. And Blancheflor was calling back to him, the strumpet!

Jehane swallowed, uncertain what to do for the best as the thwarted animal reared and reared again, hooves flailing at the stout wooden barrier that kept him from his favoured mare. Lys had spoken laughingly of her horse’s iron will. It seemed there was nothing for it but to let Blancheflor out to him before he brought the whole place crashing down about their ears.

She turned from the window, rummaging frantically for shoes and undergown before running down the stairs, her breath coming hard and fast as she sped across the yard and tugged at the stable door. But in vain; the unseasoned timber had warped, resisting her efforts, and once again she rained down curses on the interfering wine merchant from Auxerre. He was gone from her life but his unwelcome legacy remained.

Finally the door was shuddering open and she was hurrying over to unhitch the mare, her fingers fumbling as the skittish animal fought the reins. But by the time they emerged from the hay-scented darkness, the stallion was dealing the offending barrier a last sullen kick before turning and cantering away.

Jehane sagged with relief against her mare’s flank. The beast had grown bored with his efforts and was headed for home.

Then he halted and reared and screamed, and she was looking on in horror as he turned and thundered back towards the gate.

It was far too high!

He would never clear it.

He would break a leg -- or his neck!

Lys had told her of her horse’s tortured past, and Jehane ached to think that this brave and beautiful creature would meet his end this way. She dug her nails into her palms, ceasing to breathe, castigating herself for standing gawping at her window instead of hastening to let him in, as the stallion tucked in his front hooves...

Leapt...

And cleared the top bar with a handspan to spare.

Jehane relinquished her hold on Blancheflor’s reins, allowing the mare to dance over to him. One moment she was watching the reunion with a fond smile; the next, it was as if a giant fist had compressed her chest. The consequences of what she’d just witnessed were spelling themselves out for her, and her indulgent smile grew tinged with grief.

The _routier_ was back; and with the stallion in residence at Li Rossinholetz, the single-minded animal would never give them a moment’s peace. He’d grown accustomed to the company of his mare while she, Jehane, and the children were journeying up and down the River Loire, searching for answers from the elusive Eleanor of Aquitaine. Now he would be turning up at Vignoles at every opportunity, a danger to life and limb and the modest amount of property she could still call hers.

There was a single course of action open to her, and her heart jolted painfully at the thought, as if she’d stepped off a cliff and found nothing but air beneath her feet. Ironic too that here lay the solution to her moral dilemma; her neighbour might be the most disagreeable man on God’s earth, but she had accused him of theft and worse; loud and long and unjustly, for all the world to hear. Honour demanded reparation, and it was rough justice that it would hurt so much.

For there was nothing for it but to take her beloved palfrey to Li Rossinholetz and give her over into Gisborne’s care. Jehane brushed at her eyes as the moisture sprang unbidden, watching the smug equine pair as they nipped and nickered at each other. Blancheflor had been well enough over there before, she reminded herself. The mare had been returned to her promptly at the allotted time, content and in peak condition, her eyes bright and her milk-white coat glossy and sleek. But how she would miss her, and the chance to keep a watchful eye on the progress of her pregnancy, bringing her the treats she loved to distract her from the inconvenience of her growing bulk.

She must do it now while she could still summon the resolve. Unlatching the gate, she called the mare to her, allowing herself a last caress of the soft muzzle, the pricked, attentive ears, before leading her out into the lane at a leaden pace.

And if the stallion followed them or not, well, that was his choice. Jehane could not bring herself to look back for him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-two.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne groaned as dawn shot spears of light through the window above his pounding head.

He’d forgotten to close the shutters - been in no state to remember, anyway. But by then he'd given up on sleep; his eyes felt full of grit, too swollen for their sockets and his bladder twinged with every throb of his pulse. Wincing, he hauled himself up from the settle and pulled on his boots, swaying on his feet when he stood. For the moment a trip above stairs to the garderobe was out of the question; he’d go and water the garden instead.

The sun had barely begun to climb the sky, but its slanting rays beat at his brains like the blows of a giant’s club. The weeks of more moderate habits had lost him his capacity for drink; either that or the time in the Lord Anséric’s dungeon had weakened him more than he knew. By the time he’d relieved himself against the trunk of a tree, his head was spinning and he felt as sick as a carrion-bloated dog on a battlefield. He was still retching in a bucket at the side of the house when he heard the ratcheting of the opening gate and the crunch of approaching footsteps and hooves.

He glanced up, blearily cuffing strings of bile from his mouth. What he saw did not bode well for the peace and silence he craved; the Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin was marching purposefully towards him, her features pale and set. She too had regressed to her more disreputable ways; the fiery cloud of hair was uncovered and she was wearing what was surely not an undergown, patched and ragged at the hem? For reasons that escaped him, she was leading her pampered mare.

He braced himself for the usual torrent of recrimination, but her face retained its waxen mask as she halted beside him. “I’ve brought you Blancheflor,” she said tightly, and she cast a glance behind her. “ _He_ was at Vignoles before dawn today. It was a toss-up as to which would shatter first, his forelegs or my gate.”

Gisborne followed the direction of her gaze to see that the stallion had followed them in. “Rather than face a life-time of such rude awakenings,” his troublesome neighbour was explaining, “it seemed wiser to admit defeat.”

He nodded acceptance of her reasoning, and immediately wished he hadn’t as a dagger of pain drove into one eye. Given the pigheaded beast's fascination with the mare, it was bound to happen; only the swiftness of her owner’s capitulation came as a surprise. His voice was hardly more than a hoarse whisper after his retching bout. “Once he’s set his heart on something, it’s well nigh impossible to change his mind.”

She eyed him askance. _He’s not the only pigheaded beast round here_ , that look said.

“She did well enough with you while I was away,” she conceded stiffly as the dainty creature acknowledged Gisborne’s presence with a complacent nicker. He went to pat the arched neck, fingers combing through the fringes of the milk-white mane, and wondered what the admission had cost her. “I’ll walk her down to the paddock,” he muttered, examining his boots. “It’s cooler there under the trees.” On an impulse he added. “Walk into the house. Master Reynault should be laying out food and wine.”

But she declined, citing the need to be back before she was missed. “Besides,” she said with a trace of her old asperity, “I can see you’re... unwell.”

He rubbed at the tightness in his jaw. Why not say what you’re thinking? he thought. Hung over, as you’d expect me to be. He shrugged. “I’ve not had an easy few days,” he said, the admission escaping him unawares. 

She regarded him thoughtfully, as if measuring what she should say. “Then we have one thing in common,” she remarked at last. “I had an illuminating visit - from the Duchess of Aquitaine, no less.” She inhaled deeply, then drew herself up. “Consequently you should know I shan’t be troubling you any more. Li Rossinholetz is yours.”

With that, she turned on her heel and made for the gate. There was something in the rigid set of her shoulders that pricked at Gisborne’s long-dormant sense of justice. She'd already learned that she'd been wrong all along and the rights she'd contested so fiercely were lost to her; this morning she’d lost the mare as well. She was defeated, utterly, but she bore the rout with dignity and a resignation he’d never thought to see in her.

A faded picture flashed though his mind; his mother, standing straight and unbowed by the grave dug for his leper father; condemned by the Church to a living death. “Wait!” he said, as she put out a hand to unlatch the gate. He wound Blancheflor’s reins round the branch of a tree and crossed the yard to her. “Speak to my steward.” He folded his arms and inspected his boots again. “Visit your mare at your leisure; pass on any concerns you may have.” A rank-smelling strand of hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away with an impatient moue of distaste. “He’ll know when I’m to be away from home, if that is your preference. Though I would never deny you access to her.”

She inclined her head, the heavy copper tresses concealing her expression.

His long-buried better self still nagged at him like a horse-fly bite. “I was with the Duchess too,” he confessed, before she could open the gate and leave. His temples throbbed as he recalled the rough summons and the stay in the prison cell. “I had something from her that should belong to you.”

It lay on the trestle by the basket of new bread; the steward must have retrieved it from under the settle where he’d passed his sleepless night. He snatched it up and went outside again to place it on her palm. Head bent as if it was suddenly too heavy for her neck, she stared down at the great balas ruby in its setting of rose gold. He thought he saw her chin quiver before her fingers closed tightly round the sole survivor of the Countess of Vézelay’s rebel rings.

Gisborne shuffled his feet. Oddly, there was no triumph in seeing her so subdued. The boy he’d once been was taught to be gracious in victory; he cast about for more to offer in consolation for her defeat, and hit upon something that would be no hardship at all. In fact, he’d made himself a promise to that very effect in the darker watches of last night.

“There is something more that may please you,” he said. “I’m aware I’ve become a source of interest for your children. Unsought on my part, but there it is - the attraction of the unusual, no doubt.” His lips pressed together as he remembered just how unsuitable that _unusual_ had been. “In future I shall show them no tolerance. I will not speak to them, I will not allow them on my land. My steward and my tenants will have orders to that effect. Perhaps you would wish to make that clear to them.”

Their mother shot him a sceptical glance, as well she might; after all, they’d had this conversation before. But now he had an added incentive to cut the troublesome pair out of his life. The boy was a buzzing gadfly. As for young Aubrey, he longed to wring her neck for the merry dance she’d led him, yet that and the many other punishments his displeasure suggested were out of the question for a gently-born young girl.

The lady Jehane accorded him a curt nod as she passed through the gate and stalked resolutely down the lane. The equine demands for attention relieved him of the obligation to follow her progress till she was lost to sight.

 

**The Manors of Vignoles-sous-Avallon and Li Rossinholetz.**

**I.**

 “You’ll catch it, squirt!”

Thierry de Saint Aubin started as Aubrey emerged from a tangled nest of sweat-dampened sheets to regard him with a jaundiced eye.

He poked out his tongue, then probed tentatively at the newly-emerging front teeth. “Sour grapes,” he retorted and went back to dressing, pulling the homespun tunic over his head to hide a smug smile. It wasn’t _his_ comfortable clothes Maman had taken away and burnt ceremoniously, after she'd caught them practising their swordplay in the stable yard. Nor had she forbidden him to set foot outside their bedchamber for a whole month, unless it was for lessons. But then _he_ ’d not sneaked off to a tourney, all by himself and without a word to anyone. He had stayed at home, doing his duty and minding his lessons like a true knight should.

It must have been a glorious adventure all the same. Thierry uttered a wistful sigh as he pictured the scene for the hundredth time. The tall horses, breathing battle-fire from distended nostrils, the rainbow colours of surcôtes over hauberks of shining steel; the sparks flying like stars from the clash of broadswords as brave warriors fought for mastery of the field.

He stowed his yearning thoughts away and tiptoed down the stairs, leaving Aubrey to stew in self-righteous pique. He was out of the door and across the yard before his conscience reminded him that his appearance was unbecoming in a _preux chevalier_ ; his face and hands were unwashed and his hair uncombed. But for once that wouldn’t have to matter; he was on a mission, and he hadn’t the time to turn back now. After all, he’d only have to wash again when he got home.

It was hard sometimes to square one knightly obligation with another, he reflected soberly, unfastening the gate with infinite care lest the latch should rattle against the hasp. It was over a week now since Maman had taken Blancheflor to Li Rossinholetz. She would be well looked after there, he was sure of that, but he missed her. Besides, a true knight always saw to the well-being of his horses himself.

Recently however, most mornings had been occupied with Father Joscelin’s lessons. Absently, Thierry rubbed his blistered and ink-stained fingers together as he emerged into the lane, for schooling did not come easily to him. Not all knights could read and fewer still knew how to write for themselves. But he agreed it was a skill that would give him an edge, and the Knight had said he’d need all the edge he could get if he was to make his way in the world.

So he’d been torn. Then he’d reasoned that if he got up very early one day, he could visit the mare and be back before anyone knew he was gone. Except for Sour Grapes Aubrey, as it turned out, who’d not sent so much as a crust of bread for Blancheflor's delight. But Aubrey was cross at having to stay at home and wear skirts all the time.

Thierry gazed up at the white sky as a furnace-blast hit his face. It was already hot, hotter than he’d anticipated and for a moment he was tempted to take the long way round; through the meadows and down by the river banks. He’d not checked up on the badgers since spring; there might be cubs to watch, tempted out of their sett in daylight by the secret green shade of the bramble thickets. And if not, there’d be leaf-boats to sail on the chattering stream.

But then he’d never be there and back again in time. Straight down the lane it must be, though the progress was slow over the sun-baked ruts in bare feet. For once he found himself wishing he’d stopped to put on his shoes.

At last he reached Li Rossinholetz, and peered cautiously into the yard. There was no one about, which was good. The Knight didn’t want them round there any more, under any circumstances, Maman had said; though that was more than likely to be her own idea. Maman had never forgiven him for taking her for a kitchen girl. Thierry chuckled to himself yet again at the memory of her surprised face as she emerged from the henhouse, bottom first. Which was mean of him as a true knight, he admitted as he pushed at the gate - only to meet with a surprise of his own. It rattled, but it didn’t budge an inch. Then he spotted the heavy-duty iron chain that bound the posts together, and the equally sturdy lock.

This was new. He gave the gate a frustrated shake or two, but with no real hope of success. Of course there was a score of ways for a resourceful scout to gain access to the estate but his time today was limited; there was nothing for it but to climb over it. He was perched astride the top bar, scrabbling frantically for a toe-hold when Reynault the steward came out of a barn and strode towards him, a grim expression clouding his usually good-natured face.

“Get down this instant, Master Thierry!”

“I want to see Blancheflor, that’s all.” The narrow slat dug painfully into his crotch, making his eyes water, but he bit at his lip and made himself go on. “I need to know she’s all right. You see, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken her out when Maman told us not to. So I feel…” He waved a hand blindly, searching for the word, then let out an involuntary wail as his efforts to express himself made the gate wobble beneath him, pinching sensitive flesh.

“Responsible?” Reynault’s face was studiously blank. “It is not my place to say this, young sir, but I shall say it all the same. Next time perhaps you will stop and think before you act.” He jabbed a finger at him, in a gesture oddly reminiscent of his master. “Now get yourself down from there before you do yourself a permanent mischief.”

Dejected and aching, Thierry did as he was bid with leaden limbs.

“Off you go, then,” the steward prompted with false bonhomie, when the walking wounded had regained firm ground. “And don’t come back. My lord has left strict instructions that you are not to be allowed to trespass on his land again. I know he told your mother as much and I cannot think she forgot to pass it on.”

He leaned on his side of the gate and held Thierry’s gaze, the better to drive his point home. “If you do,” he added, his gold-brown fox’s eyes stony and hard, “He will see to it that you are sorry. Very sorry, and for a very long time,” he added ominously. “And if there is one thing I have learned from him in the past few months, it is that he is a man of his word.”

Thierry squinted up into the honest features, once so open and now so cold and set. There had to be some mistake. The Knight was a sore-headed bear at times but it soon wore off and then he was almost kind. Besides, there were the sword-play lessons. “But Master Reynault…” he began.

But the steward cut him off. “He is a busy man.” His tone left no room for compromise. “He will not have children forever trailing after him. Wild, unruly children, who are a disgrace to their lady mother, and are well old enough to know better.” His stern expression dissolved, becoming almost apologetic. “Forgive me for being so frank, Master Thierry, but you know it for the truth.”

“But…”

Reynault’s hand came up to silence him. “Make sure he does not set eyes on you again. That goes for young Aubrey too.”

Thierry blinked, and blinked again. His eyes burned and there was a scratchy feeling in his throat, surely because of the rising heat of the day and nothing at all to do with the sudden pang deep beneath his ribs, echoed by the dull throb that still lingered between his legs.

The steward eyed him keenly and sighed. “Wait here,” he said. “This is against my better judgment, but if you give me your word you will cause no trouble in future, I will bring the mare out to you, just this once.”

Thierry nodded eagerly. Of course he wouldn’t cause trouble. No one would even see him come and go by his secret ways. And in time the Knight would relent, he always had before. “Could I have a drink of something too?” he asked with the widened eyes grown-ups had been known to find appealing. The buttermilk pitcher had been empty when he’d checked earlier, though it had been pretty full the evening before. Nor could he find the pair of pies Berthe had baked the evening before and left on the kitchen sill to cool; perhaps she'd taken them home with her. “I’ll have to run back to be in time for my lesson, and I’m pretty thirsty already.”

Reynault gave him the long-suffering look that often preceded adult capitulation, and strode off in the direction of the house. Thierry let out a breath and clasped his hands on his belt, watching him go. A jaunty whistle sprang to his lips, though they were a little too dry to make a decent job of it.

  
**II.**

 

“Christ on the cross!”

Aubrey cursed roundly as the nib split, spattering the precious scrap of vellum with spreading blotches of brownish black. It had been filched that morning from Father Joscelin’s meagre stock, salvaged from old and rotting scrolls for schoolroom use, and there was no more to be had for now.

Sand took away the worst of the damage and the Knight’s favoured curse soothed a little of the frustration. They’d been using pen and ink for less than a week and it was hard to get the hang of it in such a short time. Still, needs must. The priest had left a couple more quills behind, ready cut, and there was a puddle of ink in the horn. The blots would have to be worked round, that was all.

 _To the Nyte, gretynges_...

Somehow that didn’t look right, but it would have to do.

Maman had said he didn’t wish to see them ever again, but Maman was Maman; she always erred on the side of the negative wherever the Knight was concerned. Then this morning Thierry had come panting back, barely in time for the day’s lesson and bursting with indignation at Master Reynault’s high-handed attitude. Worryingly, the steward had confirmed their banishment. What could have turned their hero against two of his keenest advocates, so suddenly and so completely?

It was a case of garbled communications, that was it! It wasn’t possible that he’d cast them both off like bundles of old rags without the decency of telling them so to their faces.

Tongue poking, fingers sore with the unfamiliar task, Aubrey poured out an aching heart onto the parchment scrap.

 _Yor frend,_ the wandering scrawl concluded at last,

 _Aubrey de Saint Aubin_.

That last line at least was right. They’d practised their names till their blisters bled.

Two fingers in the mouth produced a whistle that carried easily to the stable block, where Ham would be finishing work for the day. He was standing underneath the window in moments, and it took but a moment more to let the letter down on a piece of string with hissed instructions to carry it over to Li Rossinholetz at once.

“Get one of the serving girls to hide it in her gown. Lalie’s the best because she isn’t sweet on him. Tell her to leave it in his chamber when she’s cleaning.”

There ensued an agony of waiting, until Berthe came up with supper the next day with something concealed under the porringer. “I had it from Master Reynault himself this afternoon,” she whispered, enjoying the conspiracy. “There’s no chicken in that, mind.” she added, indicating the steaming bowl with a jerk of her round chin. “The one I necked this morning‘s flew off all by itself. Took that wheel of cheese we was saving with it too.”

But disappearing cheeses and chickens were the last thing on Aubrey’s mind. Reynault? That didn’t sound good. It promised to be even worse when the bowl was pushed aside to reveal the original piece of parchment. The steward had intercepted the note and returned it to let the fact be known!

Dispiritedly, Aubrey picked it up, looking round for a hiding place until an alternate delivery plan could be worked out. And then the fold fell open on her palm, revealing the neat lines that crossed the original scrawl.

 _Do as you’re told for once in your life_ , the cold words read. _I have nothing to say to you_.

Then, underneath the single initial, a scornful afterthought.

_And mind your lessons. God knows you need to, judging by this note._

“Are you crying, young miss?”

Berthe had come back to bring the washing water and take away the tray. Now she was bustling round the room, untying the bed-curtains and removing the day-cover.

“I never cry,” Aubrey snapped as the servant dragged out Thierry’s truckle. Crying was for stupid girls.

A stab in the back from a supposed friend made your eyes water a little, that was all.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-three.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne stared down at the crumpled half-sheet of parchment in his hand.

He seemed fated to be burdened with importunate messages from over-emotional females these days. This one had been delivered by an itinerant pedlar of ribbons and other fripperies, and it was shorter, neater and less imaginatively spelt; Mélis did not write herself, but her many contacts would include those who did. Her mark was a flaring version of her initial, and he’d have known it anywhere.

 _I need to see you_ , the note said.

His instinct was to screw it up and toss it aside with an oath. Did she imagine he was at the beck and call of a...… 'Whore' was technically true, but harsh. 'Kept woman'? She’d not taken so much as a _denier_ from him in weeks. Nor did 'mistress' apply; she had too much of a business brain to sit in her room, decorating herself and waiting for a single man to call. No, she was more than all of that; which brought him to the conclusion that she was not the kind to intrude on his life outside her bedchamber without just cause.

Ben was under a beech tree in conversation with the mare, but the beast was willing enough to come to his call. Did equine females nag? Gisborne wondered; if so, he reckoned the stallion would give as good as he got. Reynault was riding up on his chestnut as he was unfastening the gate; they’d planned to go into town to look at some yearlings, but that would wait. “I’ll be out all day,” he told the retainer. “Something’s come up.”

He touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks, urging the lazy animal to a reluctant canter. The sooner he discovered what had ruffled Mélis’ glossy plumage, the sooner they could get that visit to the horse-trader done. If those yearlings passed muster, they might form the start of the modest stud farm that he’d been considering for some time and which, with the dainty mare ceded to Li Rossinholetz, was now a small step closer to reality.

 

**The Town of Domécy-sur-Cure.**

**l.**

Mélis must have been watching for him, for she flung the door open before he could raise a fist to knock.

Her sloe eyes brimmed with secrets, though this was one of her professional tricks and why she was so good at the game. “An honour that you’ve come so promptly, my lord,” she murmured, stepping aside to admit him. She cast down her gaze as she did so, inviting him to admire how her long lashes brushed her cheek and notice the white skin above the neckline of her damson-red gown. It was another trick of the trade and he knew it as well as she did herself.

“Why so impatient? Have you no shame?” he asked, content for the moment to prolong the charade.

And so was she. “I’ve missed you,” she complained with a pretty pout. “You’ve left me feeling neglected of late.” Her silk skirts rustled as she turned to make for the stairs, her hips swaying enticingly as she climbed ahead of him.

Her chamber was shuttered and shadowed but the air was sweet, smelling of the late peaches that nestled in a basket at the side of the curtained bed - yet another of her tricks and one she knew he particularly liked. But once they were inside, she shut the door and leaned back against it, shaking her head when he strode purposefully towards her. “I lured you up here under false pretences,” she said, her voice brisk and urgent now, with no trace of the professional seductive purr. “I have heard something I thought you should know, but I have a new maid and I don’t trust her not to repeat what she hears.”

But Gisborne was in no mood for such matters. He wanted the game. He wanted to be master of his mind again; to banish the thoughts that intruded on him in unguarded moments with a less destructive brand of oblivion than the one to be found in a flagon of wine.

“Later,” he growled, peeling the plum-coloured silk from her shoulders. “Unless you’re about to tell me we’re surrounded by armed guards all thirsting for my blood.”

 

**II.**

“Now.”

Gisborne lay back against the down-filled pillows, his hands behind his head. It felt deliciously decadent to be abed in the afternoon; after their exertions he felt loose-limbed and relaxed, willing to listen to whatever she had to say. Mélis was a woman with the intelligence to be undemanding, except for in bed, so he was intrigued to know what had prompted her to take the unprecedented step of summoning him. Perhaps it would distract him from the hollow feeling that lurked at his core at these times, despite the physical release.

“If you insist,” she protested with a moue. Then she abandoned the game, speaking swiftly and seriously once more. “It could well be nothing, but I thought you should be on your guard. I was bored, so I went to the market in Vézelay the other day...”

He interrupted her with a lazy chuckle, deep in his throat. “I’ve never understood the female passion for shopping,” he reflected, winding a strand of her dark hair round a finger.

She sat up, drawing the sheet up to her chest, and eyed him quizzically.” Do you hunt?”

He shrugged. “Now and then. I don’t particularly enjoy it."

She wrapped her arms round her knees, still examining his face. “Too much like the day job, was it, to be a pleasant distraction?”

For a hunter and killer of men, perhaps it was. He’d never looked at it like that.

“Let me put it this way; like the chase, you can shop from need or merely for a little sport to spice an idle hour.” Mélis rolled onto her stomach, tracing the thread work on her goose down pillow with a delicate touch. “So I hunt the coverts of the market to see what game I can flush out - a silver flagon for wine perhaps, or fine wool for a gown.” Her face turned up to him like an exotic flower seeking the sun. “And for once the choice is in my hands; to buy or not to buy. It pleases me that money in my purse gives me power over the trader, whose need to sell outweighs my need to acquire.”

Gisborne cocked a brow at her and she sat up again, hugging the pillow to her with a sigh. “I know this is small stuff for a master of creation such as yourself.” A brittle laugh escaped her. “Have you never been a prisoner of circumstance, my proud English lord?”

The question caught him unawares; his lids fluttered down to veil the resurgent images of a sordid past as Vaisey’s lackey and attack dog.

“If you had,” she was saying lightly, “You’d know you have to work with the system. It’s why we women rarely say what we mean, nor mean what we say..."

 _Lies are a woman’s only weapon at times_...

"...while power and choice are rare pleasures for us.”

“But you digress,” Gisborne prompted, shutting out the voice in his head and willing his present companion to come to the point. “ _Not_ such a rare pleasure in women, I’ve found.”

“ _Touché_!” The pillow fell to her lap as she held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, revealing her small pointed breasts. “Well, you should know there was much talk among the booths." Her professional mask was discarded fully now and her eyes were dark with anxiety. “Strangers have been seen about; it started several weeks ago apparently, but they've been coming and going ever since. Men, plainly dressed but well-mounted and spending much time up at the chancery at first; then they spread out, speaking to townsfolk and visitors alike.”

A frown marred the smoothness of her brow as Gisborne remained silent, absorbing the news and wondering why she thought it meant anything for him.

“Spies,” was her considered verdict. “And seemingly headed your way, for their interest lay in holders of lands to the south-east, in the environs of Avallon.” Her eyes were full of questions as she voiced her concern. “You wouldn’t be on someone's hit-list, would you, my reclusive English knight?”

The would-be lord of his manor, de Bèze, again? Judging from the incompetent rabble he’d hired before, his kind of money wouldn’t have bought this long a reach. Had Richard caught up with him after all? Or John? It had to be John; the weasel-like tactics were just his style. Gisborne's gut rolled unpleasantly. It seemed he was never to be free of his past... Yet the Queen had implied that neither of her sons knew Guy of Gisborne still lived; why should either of them be hunting a dead man? It made no sense - unless their mother had thought better of her decision to pardon him and sent them word of his whereabouts.

Suddenly, the tension drained from his body. Of course! Several weeks ago, Eleanor of Aquitaine would still have been spreading her net, searching for him. The spies had been hers, and Mélis’s marketplace gossip was old news.

“I was on someone’s black list,” he confessed and he stretched indolently. “Though it was a great lady who was hunting me. And then she caught me and threw me into a dungeon.” His lips curved at Mélis’s sharp intake of breath. “That’s why I’ve been so neglectful of my pleasure of late.”

“Why am I not surprised?” The professional lightness of tone was back. “What did you do, my lord? Spurn her advances or leave her for another?”

“I’d never have dared.” He gave a grim smile “I tried to kill one of her sons, then tried again = among other things. But she decided there were extenuating circumstances.” He shifted in the bed languorously, eager to dismiss the topic now. “Enough of that,” he said. “Peel me a peach.”

He watched with mounting interest as the golden juice ran from her fingers to pool on naked skin.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane closed the ledger with a satisfying thud and rewarded herself with a sip from her cup of wine - well-watered, for their meager stocks seemed to grow thinner and more acidic by the day. This morning she’d set herself a task she’d long been dreading; a full inspection of the manor accounts, and she’d just completed the review.

For once all was calm and quiet in the house. The children were in the main hall, well-scrubbed and bent over their lesson-books under the watchful eye of Father Joscelin. To her great good fortune, the priest was a born educator and enjoyed the tussle with lively young minds; he’d been only too willing to donate more of his time in return for the promise of a good dinner at the end of it.

“This too is prayer,” he’d told her when her conscience had troubled her for using him as a handy device for keeping her pair of tearaways under control. “And prayer is what I have bound myself to do.” Jehane herself had offered up thanks for the comfort of knowing where her children were, and in whose sure hands.

With her comfortable solar gone forever along with the old house, she’d taken the books to her chamber and sat before the window, enjoying the clear light on the page and the air on her neck. A notion had come to her as she lay in bed the previous night. Surely the added value of the new mansion, cottages and out-buildings could be offset against her debt? She should write to the Lady Maheult in Dijon, asking her to consult her contacts at the duke’s chancery on her behalf.

Meanwhile, her morning's work among the neat columns of figures had exposed the cheering fact that enough money remained from the sale of the unwanted furniture and other household effects to cover her outgoings for a good few months. A further cause for optimism was the continuing fine weather, compounding the prospect of a record crop of grapes. Any rain had come in the evenings, hardly more than a refreshing mist to lay the dust and the essential ripening period of _véraison_ was well under way, the hard green globules turning first to glowing ruby red, then a rich purple bloom.

Of course, an unknown factor in any recently-established vineyard was the _terroir_ \- the orientation and type of soil. Here in the Burgundy countryside this varied within the space of yards, making the difference between a wine that was merely adequate and one that was truly remarkable. Thus far their yield had been insufficient to point either way.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the little treatise on viticulture, brought by Robert from his family estates in Beaune, and now kept tucked within the ledger’s covers. This short pamphlet was what had triggered his disillusion with the venture; a waste of his time, he’d called it, pointing angrily to this and that diktat of the master vintner of the Saint Aubin _demesnes_. This blasted root-stock would never flourish this far north, he’d complained, bemoaning their ill-luck with location and soil and contrasting it with that of Li Rossinholetz and its admirable yield. The parchment still bore the traces of singeing from where he’d thrown it on the fire.

Jehane had quickly understood that the problem lay with the cooler climate prevailing here. Once the vintner's instructions were transposed to a later month, all proceeded as the treatise from Beaune laid down; the stages of the growing season, the time of the _vendange_ , the initial low yield from the young vines, lacking body at first and barely sufficient for their own use. This year should be the turning point; already the vines were heavier than they’d ever been with the promise of swelling fruit. At last all would be well and they could expect a fine harvest, with plenty of rich wine to sell and more than enough for themselves. Their chances of prosperity would be improved, her children’s future on firmer ground, with Hawise’s machinations and the petty irritations from the neighbouring manor consigned to the past.

Of course, much still depended on Fate or the will of God; whichever force held sway over the vagaries of the weather. The treatise spoke gloomily of rot and hail damage, as it urged the importance of choosing the day of optimum ripeness for the harvest to begin. Such reflections were a check on premature complacency, yet for now she was strangely content, here in this shady room under the eaves with only the sounds from the livestock and the tireless cicadas to keep her company, and now and then a clatter from the kitchen that showed the midday meal was on its way. She picked up her cup again, the last sour drops distracting her with thoughts of the vintage to come, when a rap on the door downstairs dragged her from her reverie.

There was a reluctant scuff of slippered feet and a heavy sigh; Berthe, frustrated to be dragged from her cooking at a crucial time. A click of the catch ensued, and voices; then it was Jehane’s turn for an impatient intake of breath, for she would have recognised that drone anywhere; it was Tomas, the _prévost_ ’s clerk and Hawise of Flavigny’s unofficial flunky. It seemed her quiet morning was at an end.

What could he want with her this time? Smoothing down her gown, she pinned on a veil. Then she went down to face whatever new headache he was delivering to her door. Their paths had not crossed since the day of her confrontation with his mistress and the merchant from Auxerre; indeed she'd thought him gone long from his post. Nor had his manner changed for the better. Money talked louder to him than character or rank; it had ever been his habit to look down his nose at the less than affluent, and today it was if his nostrils had been invaded by some foul smell.

“Yes?” she snapped, feeling more than justified in dispensing with the niceties here.

Tomas’ reply was equally without preamble. “You are summoned to appear in the _prévost_ ’s office tomorrow morning at the hour of halfway Prime.”

She looked him up and down. “I think not,” she retorted, suspecting some new chicanery on Hawise of Flavigny’s part. The interfering besom had been keeping to herself of late. Jehane had made her feelings quite clear on the subject of her matchmaking, and she’d dared to hope that the other woman had abandoned her efforts along with her desire to make social capital of her.

“I have relinquished all claim to the ownership of Li Rossinholetz,” she informed the clerk. “I have no further business with _Maistre_ Guiscard.” Unless Maheult had anticipated her thoughts on the offsetting of her debts and this was the official waiver, come from Dijon already? But that was unlikely; the tirewoman had a thousand other things to occupy her mind with the prospect of a new duchess to welcome and install.

She was about to end the conversation by shutting the door in the bony face when he reached into his tunic and produced a scroll, festooned with seals and ribbons. “If you’ll have your priest read it to you,” he said condescendingly, with a nod to Father Joscelin who’d approached on silent feet, wondering what the disturbance was about, “You will see that there is no mistake. The hour of your attendance is clearly marked for you. Please be on time.” And with that, he strode off to his horse and rode away.

Jehane tore her eyes from the roll of parchment to meet the level gaze of the man of God. “He is… confident in his skin, for a clerk,” was his mild comment.

“Tomas has a formidable patron, or so he thinks. _Maistre_ Guiscard has hinted that he was to be replaced, but that has failed to happen.” She shrugged, pushing out her lips. “Perhaps the man was right in his calculations after all.”

Father Joscelin folded his hands into the sleeves of his modest homespun robe. His self-imposed penance of returning to the world had begun many years ago, but his monkish habits lingered on. “Then may his sin of pride precede the saving grace of a swift and salutary fall, my lady,” he murmured smoothly, and he glided back to his charges in the main hall.

Jehane drew in a steadying breath and ran an eye over the document she held. The workman-like script told her it was as Tomas had said; she was to appear at their office the next morning at an unearthly hour, as attested by the official seal; a depiction of Saint Lazarus, seated under one of the apple trees which gave the town its ancient name. Unusually, the parchment bore a second roundel of wax with an impression that was new to her. It was no use asking the good Father to decipher the inscription that bordered a generic image of crenulated towers; stamped in obvious haste, it was blurred beyond recognition.

For the rest of the day she tormented herself as to what this summons must mean, try as she might to convince herself that it was typical of Tomas to make so much mystery and drama out of what was surely a minor matter. No more than a glass of wine, perhaps, and a friendly discussion of her future plans for the estate.

Nevertheless, she had the grey gelding saddled and was on the road at dawn.

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-four.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Restlessness had been Gisborne’s tireless stalker since he left the castle of Chastellux-sur-Cure behind him and struck out for home.

By night he contrived to blot out the troubling reflections with the judicious application of strong drink. By day he could rarely settle to anything, for no matter how he sought to occupy himself, the uncomfortable thoughts came crowding in. Yesterday he'd abandoned the habit of a lifetime, staying on with Mélis for the whole of the afternoon; passing the night in her bed till the pair of them were breathless and spent. Yet the thoughts still haunted him, along with the cold hollow at his core that no physical release could dispel. Sometimes it seemed he’d exchanged his old demons for new.

He’d first encountered the man who was to become the Sheriff of Nottingham after a run of bad luck on the tourney field, the coins from Isabella’s bride price all but gone. Vaisey had seemed the answer to his prayers at the time, the perfect vehicle to convey him onward and upward in his quest for riches and power. Only later had he understood that in pandering to this small man’s naked ambition he’d sown the seeds of his own destruction.

Well, he was free of that malign presence at last; though he'd come to suspect the female sex would finish the task the Sheriff had begun; Marian, for love of whom he’d gone beyond the edge of sanity; Meg, whose loss would for ever drown him in guilt, and Isabella, his sister, his own flesh and blood, whose hatred pursued him from beyond the grave with every lingering pull of his wounds.

At least his relations with Mélis were purely transactional and his dispute with his hot-headed neighbour had reached a conclusion, in what passed for a degree of mutual understanding between them both. It would have been hard not to admire her dignity that day as she conceded defeat and gave her cherished mare into his hands. If only that devious chit of a daughter of hers was as easy to scrub from his mind.

He’d intended to clear his head by spending the morning with the horses. Blancheflor was growing fat and lazy before her time; it would do her no harm to be ridden, but he hesitated to subject the dainty beast to his tall man’s weight. He’d taken her down to the paddock and put her on the lunging rein instead, Ben pacing unhelpfully at her side with the occasional playful nip to put the mare off her stride.

The quiet voice was amused and indulgent today. _I think he likes her_ , it said, but it bore echoes of a darker, gloating voice he’d thought extinguished forever, only moments ago.

_I think she likes you..._

Gisborne hissed as the humiliating scene in the castle bailey impinged on his mind's eye, the spiced scent of her soothing balm revealing how he'd betrayed himself to her...

There was another! His dead Countess, who reminded him of too much he would rather forget. He clenched his jaw and released the mare, leaving the horses to their own devices and going to fetch his sword. The scars were less restricting to his movements by now but it paid to keep them supple; bedsport was all well and good, but the discipline of going through the training moves would work off his excess nervous energy and divert his mind from going over all the manipulative little besom had inveigled him into saying to her.

Yet when he returned to the patch of grass at the orchard’s edge, he could swear she was there -  almost feel her standing behind him, watching his every move with that level grey-green gaze. Any moment now there’d be a crow of triumph and she’d spring out at him, bouncing on her toes as he’d shown her and battering at him with her wooden blade. He’d trained a high-born girl-child to wield a sword...

If only that was all he’d taught her!

What decent young maiden would stand there in her ragged boy’s clothes and trick him into answering questions she had no right to ask - and he no right to answer for her? He'd thought himself immune to feminine wiles by now; but how could he have known they started so young? At ten, Isabella had been a shallow pool; Aubrey de Saint Aubin lured you in till you were up to the neck in a murky undertow of inappropriate subjects and impossible demands on your time.

 _Do you ever touch yourself_?

Christ on the cross!

Gisborne’s cheeks were on fire. The perspiration ran off his body to pool in his armpits, and not all of it due to the rigor of the exercise.

 

**The Town of Avallon.**

It was uncomfortably warm despite the hour. The town seemed to float on a cushion of mist as Jehane rode up the hill, one of Ernoul’s sturdy sons-in-law at her side on a sullen Flopears, the balky beast disgruntled as ever by the untimely start.

Ernoul himself had been left in charge. ‘Outcomers’ had been seen in the neighbourhood, he’d said, and they'd been asking questions here and there. With a sinking heart, Jehane recalled the recent rash of unexplained events, beginning round the time of the tourney; incidents she’d persuaded herself were accidents or the natural lapses of a busy life. Food had gone missing from the larder, trinkets and household items mislaid; it seemed that what happened from time to time was happening again. Still, she could rely on the old headman to deal with the situation, should matters come to their inevitable head. He might be past his prime, but he knew how to rally the villagers when this particular kind of trouble brewed.

The questions were a new and worrying departure, though...

The restless night and the ascending August sun conspired to ensure she was hot and tired as she threaded the narrow streets that led to Avallon’s main square. Ernoul’s old army comrade met them at the stable door, bustling up with a bowl of water to cool her face and hands and dab under her veils. The kindness emboldened her to beg a swallow of rough wine from him, for her breath rasped in a throat that felt as dry as the dust on the road; a combination of the heat and a mounting apprehension she was unable to suppress. Her wits gathered somewhat, she made her way to the _prévost_ 's chamber, mounting the stairs in the combination of bravado and nervous energy that had become second nature to her for far too long.

The anteroom was still dark when she entered, smelling close and fusty; someone had forgotten to open the shutters to freshen the place while the air was still cool.

“You are early, Lady Jehane.” Tomas’ gaunt figure emerged from the inner sanctum, closing the doors behind him. He stalked towards her though the gloom and peered down his bony beak of a nose at her. “I’m not sure we are ready for you.”

Jehane had lost patience with the posturings of this self-important pen-pusher who lacked the imagination to think through the implications of antagonising the very people his mistress hoped to use to better herself. Not too surprising perhaps, since Hawise of Flavigny lacked the perception herself. “I’m not sure I’m ready for you,” she said tartly. “Until I’ve been offered the minimum of courtesies. A cup of wine, for example, and a little bread to break my fast.”

At this juncture, the door to the _prévost_ ’s office swung open and an impatient voice called out. “Tomas! Has the lady Jehane arrived? If not, go and find out why. It was your responsibility to see she was here on time.”

The clerk’s sharp features were rigid with pique as he gestured for her to enter with a wave of a hand; then he followed her inside, closing the door behind him with an pointed snap. He was making for a seat behind the desk, but was waved away to a position on the sidelines; a tall spare figure in the shadows like a gloomy heron on a mud bank, peering through the mist with little hope of frogs.

Three black-robed men faced her over the heavy oak slab, but they showed Jehane more courtesy than their sullen assistant had done. She was ushered to a chair and wine and pleasantries were offered; then they settled down to the business in hand.

“First of all, my lady Jehane, we must thank you for your prompt attendance,” began the soft–voiced official who occupied the centre seat, with a reproving glance in Tomas’ direction. This had to be Alart, the _sous-prévost,_ reputed not to venture far from the dustier reaches of the archives as a rule. The men who flanked him, eyeing her levelly, were strangers to her. “These gentlemen have tight schedules, they inform me, and a long ride home ahead of them, hence our troubling you at this unseasonable hour,” Alart explained. “Now, my lady,” he went on with a tug at the collar of his robe, “I should tell you _Maistre_ Guiscard is away at present, on family business. Therefore it falls to me to present _Maistre_ Daimbert…” He indicated the plump grey-bearded figure on his right. “And his colleague, _Maistre_ Evrard; both of the chancery of the lord Pierre de Courtenay, Count of Auxerre.”

Jehane acknowledged the introductions with a nod and a fixed smile, but her mind was racing. This must explain that second seal.  The mention of Auxerre was ominous; even so, she’d never set foot in the place, never mind having dealings with its count. Vignoles had been held in fief from the now defunct county of Vézelay, since when it had reverted to the dukedom of Burgundy itself. What could this stone-faced pair from a city a good day’s ride away want with her, unless...?

 _Maistre_ Daimbert folded his hands on his slight paunch and cleared his throat. “I fear we are here on unpleasant business, my lady,” he began, his heavy features as sombre as his tone.

“And one our lord the Count is anxious to see completed,” put in his colleague, a wiry figure of a man with a face like carved wood. A tuft of oily black hair protruded from beneath his clerkly cap. “It concerns someone much in favour with him, you see.” He chose a roll of parchment from the several before him and smoothed it out with meticulous care, his brow creasing like linen-fold panelling as he squinted at it.

Eventually he found what he was looking for and set the document aside, leaning forward to fix Jehane with a flat black stare. “You are accused, my lady, in a matter of _sponsalia per verba de futuro._ ” The Latin phrase, intended to confuse and confound the mere female she was, rolled smoothly from his tongue. “In common parlance, you are charged with breach of promise to marry; namely, by one Laurent Martin, wine merchant of our city of Auxerre.”

From his seat on Alart's other side, Daimbert cleared his throat again. “Of course, Lady Jehane, we are obliged to point out that this is an informal hearing.” He bestowed a wintry smile on her. “A fact-finding mission, if you will. Count Pierre is loath to see his premier supplier of fine wines, a man whose acumen and intelligence brings much profit to our city, wasting his valuable time in long-drawn-out litigation before the bishop’s court.”

Jehane swallowed the billowing surge of rage. The lying, conniving bastard! So he’d gone snivelling to his patron! Hadn’t he the spine to take no for an answer, after all she’d said - and done - to him? “There was no such promise,” she said aloud, forcing herself to speak calmly. “How could there have been? I met him for the first and last time last month, in _Maistre_ Guiscard’s private residence.”

Evrard rested sharp elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “Ah,” he intoned. “Yet Master Martin claims otherwise. Indeed, it appears he has carried out extensive renovations on your manor as a marriage gift. It beggars belief that he should have done so if what you allege is true.”

“The fact remains that there was no promise,” Jehane reiterated, digging her nails into her palms to curb her exasperation. The slightest sign of an emotional outburst, and these dry-as-dust legal men would mark her down as a flighty female who couldn’t be trusted to know her own mind.

“Yet we have a signed deposition from a Mistress Hawise of Flavigny that says otherwise.” Daimbert’s tone was reason itself. “And Mistress Hawise is wife to the _prévost_ here and a close friend of yours, or so I have been led to believe. Nor can you deny the renovations have taken place, for you will accept that we would have taken the liberty of ascertaining the fact for ourselves.”

Close friend? Jehane ground her teeth as unobtrusively as she could. “Then you must know all was done while I was from home, without my knowledge or consent. Are you also aware that Mistress Hawise is own cousin to your Master Martin? She is hardly an impartial witness, I think.”

Daimbert dismissed her statement with an airy wave. “That is as may be. I am sure the wife of an esteemed colleague would not regard family ties as an excuse for perjury. As for the renovations, come now, my lady. They were a pleasant surprise, were they not; a home-coming gift for the bride-to-be? What man would go to so much trouble and expense when there was no such understanding in place?”

What man indeed? The kind who’d hoped to manoeuvre her into an impossible situation! And just how much of an impasse, she was soon to learn.

“Come, my lady.” Evrard fixed her with his basilisk stare. “You are out of sorts; a lover’s tiff, no doubt? And it is woman’s privilege to change her mind. Or so I am told...” He offered this last thought round the table for a patronising titter. “Look, my lady. Master Martin is not an unreasonable man; though his spirits were much cast down when he heard his carefully-chosen household appointments were offered up for sale on a common tourney ground stall.”

Daimbert exhaled and shook his head, his features arranged in an avuncular brand of reproach. ”However,” he added, “As my colleague points out, our client is by no means vindictive. He has no wish to press suit where it is unwanted; it is no recipe for the marital harmony he seeks.” He permitted himself a fleeting smile at this unorthodox thought. “Therefore he is prepared to extend the generosity of a choice to you.”

Evrard picked up the exposition, the two of them clearly practised hands at this game. “Our recommendation is that the marriage should go ahead as arranged. You would enjoy the protection of a man of means and influence. And as our inquiries have borne out,” he said, his features pinched with disapproval, “your children are in need of a father’s discipline. Meanwhile, you are still of an age to provide him with the blessing of an heir...” Here he coughed and corrected himself hastily. “... _offspring_ of his own.”

Inquiries? So that explained Ernoul's worries, if not all of hers. As for marriage to Master Laurent Martin, that had ever been an unappetising prospect and it looked no better to her today. Nor had she missed Evrard’s slip; the wine merchant’s true intentions did not bode well for her children. His means and influence would soon contrive to set them aside when a son of his own body came along.

As if the thought of welcoming him to her bed didn’t make her flesh crawl enough.

“Otherwise,” Daimbert’s relentlessly reasonable voice droned on. “He is willing to accept due compensation for expenses incurred in all good faith; the stout new buildings, the costly furniture and fittings you saw fit to sell.”

In all good faith? Jehane bit her tongue. The amount of that in the matter was minimal. And so were her prospects of paying her would-be suitor off, and she said as much to the three black-robed men who before her like like a row of crows on a fence.

Daimbert shook his head again and gave a small smile. “I hesitate to contradict you, my lady, but you are mistaken there. Indeed, we have taken the liberty of drawing up the necessary papers in case this eventuality came up.” He held out a plump white hand and Evrard passed him a second parchment from his stash. “Yes now...… Master Martin states that he would be willing not to pursue the case should you sign your vineyard over to him in lieu.” His rheumy eyes met hers over the flickering candle flame. ”It is a generous offer,” he pointed out. “Our inquiries also tell us your _terroir_ has yet to prove itself, and you will admit you lack the expertise and resources to nudge it into the growing concern it promises to be.”

The vineyard! Her last best hope of future solvency and the keystone of her children’s heritage! Give it up or endure a life of misery with this upstart of a man who cared nothing for her but the title she bore? And then he would own her vineyard anyway, along with her home and her body and everything else. Martin held her in a cleft stick, and it constricted her thoughts as it robbed her of the ability to breathe. Yet she must summon the strength to fight him from somewhere, all the way to the bishop’s court in Auxerre if need be; wedge the trap open and set herself free.

She drew in a shuddering breath and sat straight in her chair. “I shall neither wed him nor hand over my vineyard.” she said coldly, giving the lie to the fire in her gut. “I say to you again. There was no promise of marriage between us. Your Master Martin lives in cloud cuckoo land if he allows himself to imagine otherwise.”

“Thank you, Lady Jehane.” The _sous-prévost_ had decided to take charge of the proceedings at last. “I think you have made your position clear.” He paused to await his colleagues’ assent, his manner almost apologetic as he addressed her again. “I take it you have witnesses, my lady?” He glanced to the right and the left of him, a raised brow over hooded eyes managing to convey the opinion that it was highly irregular that this should not have been considered before, given the visitors' expressed desire for haste. ”We shall adjourn over the midday meal to allow you to arrange to have them brought.”

Witnesses...

Despite the close atmosphere of the _prévost'_ s chamber, Jehane’s blood ran cold as she faced the fact that there was no one of standing she could call on today; no one she would trust, that was. Her thoughts veered towards a certain hawkish face, then swiftly away again. He'd know there’d been no betrothal, all right; she would have thrown the matter in his face long ago. All the same, she’d endure Master Martin’s worst rather than ask a favour of that man.

Of course, the Duchess Eleanor knew the truth of it, but she would have returned to Fontevrault by now. She could hardly summon the dowager queen of England to intervene in her petty affairs. That left the lady Maheult. The tirewoman would confirm that no such alliance had been mentioned in all the time they’d spent together; she could also testify to her, Jehane's, confusion when they’d returned to Vignoles to find everything on the manor changed.

The men from Auxerre frowned when she mentioned the matter. They were in no mind to hang on in this rural backwater for days, waiting for testimony to arrive from Dijon. This left her a single option, flimsy as a mayfly on the wing, but it might do for now. “My tenants know me well,” she said. “They have heard me say a thousand times that I have no intention to wed.”

Daimbert pushed out full pink lips, but inclined his grey head. “As you wish. For the present it must suffice. But I must warn you that more solid evidence will be required if this dispute is to reach a permanent settlement. Have them brought then, but with haste if you please. We are busy men; we have already stayed longer than we bargained for.”

Evrard’s hand went up. “I don’t think we want the whole village descending on us or we shall be here till next week. Name one or two, my lady, and I shall delegate our operatives to bring them here. Unless,” he went on with a narrow smile for his colleagues, “the lady Jehane prefers to exercise her feminine privilege of changing her mind once more, and cede ownership of the vineyard to the good Master Martin without wasting her time and ours on this fool’s errand of hers?”

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-five.**

  
**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz**.

Gisborne was drying his face on the damp black _chainsil_ of his shirt when he spotted Reynault hurrying towards him over the yellowing grass. A thickset lout in grubby homespun was lumbering at his side; Gisborne vaguely remembered him from when the tenants from Vignoles were sharing the cottages at Li Rossinholetz - stubborn and ready with his fists, this one, though today the aggression had drained out of him like the air from a pricked bladder.

“This is Malger,” the steward announced, nudging the peasant, who tugged on his forelock and shuffled his feet. “He tells me armed men were at Vignoles just now. They’ve carried off old Ernoul and the lady Jehane’s serving girl.”

Gisborne cocked a brow at him and mopped a trickle of sweat from his throat. “And?”

“He was at the _prévost_ ’s chambers in Avallon earlier, with the lady herself, having escorted her there. It appears there is some trouble and he was bundled back in a hurry to point out witnesses to speak for her.”

Gisborne shrugged. Moments ago he'd been congratulating himself that his dealings with Jehane de Saint Aubin were at an end. He could see no earthly reason to concern himself with any further business of hers.

“They were slung over the horses’ withers, Messire, and borne away at the gallop,” Reynault’s features were studiously bland, as they invariably were when appealing to his master's jealously-guarded better self. “Ernoul is old and frail, and Berthe is my daughter’s closest friend.” The retainer's voice cracked; he coughed into his fist, embarrassed by the involuntary show of emotion, and collected himself. “Which, with your permission, is for myself to pursue of course. However, men from Auxerre were there, fostering the interests of someone we have encountered before; I thought you might wish to be informed.”

Gisborne lifted his face to the hot white sky of late summer and rolled his eyes. Not that slimy fox turd of a merchant again! “Master Laurent Martin? What’s he after now?”

The steward gave him a swift run-down of the situation, gleaned from Malger’s stuttering account. This must have been the source of the gossip that sparked Mélis' alarm, and nothing to do with himself. Yet by the time Reynault had finished speaking, Gisborne was baring his teeth. The lady Jehane had been a burr under his saddle for months, and her feral offspring deserved anything that was coming to them; the boy went about with his head in the clouds and his sister was a deceitful little witch. Any sympathy he might have felt for their fate under the rule of a man on the make was long gone.

Wasn’t it?

Yet one small manor would never be enough for a slippery bastard like that; there’d be nothing but trouble for Li Rossinholetz with him around. "He’d be welcome to her,” he growled. “But didn’t we make it clear he was not to show his face round here again?” He thrust his sword into its sheath as if he were skewering flesh. “Maybe we should remind him he owes me recompense for the disruption he caused me last time. Go and saddle your horse.”

 

**The Town of Avallon.**

**Gisborne**.

He had washed, changed his sweat-sodden clothes and was galloping down the road with the steward at his side before a candle would have burned down half a notch. His blood was up. The prospect of a little action was enlivening; how better to drive the demons away?

Tomas was skulking in the shadows of the entrance hall as Gisborne shouldered through the door. He brushed the clerk aside with a curt reminder that he knew the way, and strode up the stairs. When reached the privy chamber however, he exchanged his purposeful advance for stealth, turning the handle noiselessly as he slipped inside.

Though he might have burst in with boot-heels ringing and broadsword clanking at his hip for all the impression he made. Chaos and confusion reigned within; the peasants were on their knees before the _prévost_ ’s desk, swaying and wailing, while a trio of black-robed figures loomed over them like gargoyles on a parapet, berating them.

“Then swear!” barked the spare figure on the right. “Swear on the skull of the blessed Saint Lazarus so we may know you speak the truth.”

Joined hands were lifted in supplication as the villagers swayed and wailed again, affording intermittent glimpses of the elaborate monstrance placed on the desk before them, gleaming gold in the candlelight and set with a coruscation of gems.

“Pilgrims walk barefoot for leagues to pray before his holy relic,” intoned the plumper figure on the left. “But we have had the reliquary brought to you from the altar of his church. So if you lie, the saint will know and send an army of demons to carry you down to hell.”

Gisborne slouched against the doorjamb, following the proceedings with a crooked half-smile. Typical lawyers’ tactics, he thought to himself. Badger the crap out of the witnesses, intimidate them till they were unable to think for themselves; a technique he’d borrowed a time or two, to good effect.

A comprehensive examination of the chamber revealed the Lady Jehane in her habitual grey wool, her riot of fiery hair constrained in a seemly linen veil. She was seated to one side of the desk, her spine as straight as a lance; her gaze was resolute and unreadable though there wasn’t a trace of colour on her face. Disappointingly, there was no sign of Master Laurent Martin himself; he would have to postpone that particular pleasure for another time.

The initial speaker shrugged, his black robe bunching over his shoulders like the wings of a giant rook. “You see, my lady? It is as I feared. We will never arrive at the truth with witnesses like these.” A sallow hand emerged, waving her back to her chair as she rose from her seat to offer her tenants a reassuring word.

“Perhaps we should refresh their memories as to what they are swearing, _Maistre_ Evrard,” the middle gargoyle suggested mildly. “ _Maistre_ Daimbert, if you will?”

“Oh, very well, Alart.” The stout clerk’s jowls quivered with impatience. “Do you, Goodman Ernoul, and you, Mistress Berthe, both of the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon, swear you know of no contract of marriage between the Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin and Master Laurent Martin of Auxerre?”

“On the bones of the sainted Lazarus,” thundered his leaner colleague, keeping up the pressure. He turned to their lady and spread his hands as the terrorised villagers continued to tremble and moan. “I rather think that speaks for itself,” he said, looking about him with an urbane smile, and he began to gather up his scrolls. “Now if you will permit, urgent business awaits us in Auxerre, with a long ride ahead of us to boot.”

First round to the fox turd, then.

But Gisborne wasn’t about to let him get away with that; purely for his own self-interest of course. He had no wish to see the man ensconced at Vignoles and sniffing round Li Rossinholetz; why else had he winkled the bastard out and driven him away?

“I will so swear.”

Heads turned. All eyes fixed on him as he unfolded his arms and detached himself from the door frame, noting the start of surprise on his neighbour’s face with satisfaction ruthlessly concealed.

The man addressed as Evrard opened and closed his mouth a time or two before regaining control of himself. “And you are…?” he drawled, not troubling to hide his disapproval at the untimely interruption; so much for his plans to shake the dust of this rural backwater from his feet and return to the comfort of his own domain!

Gisborne laid a casual hand on the hilt of his sword and sauntered up to the desk. “I am the lord of the manor of Li Rossinholetz, which marches with Vignoles.” He paused while the fear-stricken peasants shuffled to one side, making way for him before making themselves scarce; then he reached out to touch the reliquary. He’d shunned contact with God and His Church for so long; as a youth he’d felt himself deserted after his loss of home and family; as a man and Vaisey’s lapdog he’d known himself unworthy to seek the peace and comfort they’d brought him in his childhood years. But this, he thought, with a tight inward smile, this he could do without fear of retribution from an angel’s flaming sword.

“I swear on these holy bones, and in full knowledge of the matter, that no contract of marriage was made between the lady of Vignoles…” He acknowledged her with a mocking bow, “…and the man you have mentioned. The renovations to her manor were done in her absence, without her knowledge or consent, as I witnessed myself.” There. It was done. What schemes Martin might have for the two manors were dead in the water; he could banish the merchant and his machinations from his mind for good, and not a flaming sword in sight.

Then he fell prey to the Devil’s pitchfork instead. Here was the perfect opportunity to destroy his neighbour’s icy composure, and he was helpless to resist. “Indeed,” he went on, removing his hand from the monstrance and glancing round the room, “any such claim might be considered invalid before God and man. It was the express wish of Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and Dowager Queen of England, that the Lady Jehane Marie de Saint Aubin should join her life to mine.”

 

**Jehane.**

“My lady?”

 _Maistre_ Alart’s measured tones drew Jehane back from a maelstrom of shock and dismay; the _routier_ had appeared out of nowhere, like the demon king in a passion play! Belatedly, she realised her jaw had dropped and she closed her mouth with a snap, her eyes tearing as her teeth snagged her tongue. Yet the sheer audacity of what he’d just done filtered through the pain. There was no denying he’d spoken the truth, if not quite the whole of it.

 _Marry the man_...…

It had been a suggestion, not an edict set in stone. And how had he known? Had the Duchess expressed the same outrageous wish to him? The very thought warmed Jehane's cheeks with humiliation; though his own encounter with the formidable Eleanor of Aquitaine had sat no more easily on him, judging from his haggard appearance, that miserable morning when she’d surrendered Blancheflor to him.

Whatever the case, his meddling had sprung her from Martin’s trap, only to leave her teetering on a cliff-edge with the waves crashing down below. Those of their rank were bound by more stringent procedures than the lowly of birth, whose intention to wed declared before peers was all the formality required. Yet here they were before officials of a chancery court, and contracts could be forged from a single careless phrase. Cunningly, Gisborne had left himself a valid legal loophole, speaking of wishes alone; yet how was she to deny his claim before these men from Auxerre? She'd be back where she started from, with the wine merchant’s allegations and the loss of her main source of income to face.

A swift glance in the _routier_ ’s direction revealed an unreadable expression, though the glint in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Meanwhile, _Maistre_ Alart was waiting for her to speak. There was nothing to do but play along; play for time, wait for this Gisborne to tire of his cat and mouse games and pray Lady Maheult’s good offices would free her from Martin’s legal tangles before too long.

“It is true the Duchess Eleanor has been good enough to take an interest in me,” she began, affecting the modestly downcast eyes that befitted such occasions, but choosing her words with infinite care. “As you may know, I was fostered together with her late niece, who was our Countess here.”

Through her lashes, she saw Alart nod. “Indeed,” the _sous-prévost_ acknowledged, turning to his colleagues. “We hear the noble lady was recently at Vignoles, when she was the guest of the Seigneur de Montréal at Chastellux-sur-Cure.”

Jehane folded her lips in a demure smile. “So it is as my lord of Gisborne says. She has expressed the royal wish that he and I should wed. Is it your desire, _mes maistres_ , that I swear to this on Saint Lazarus’ holy skull?”

Alart waved a hand. “We can lay claim to no more than a modest sliver as you know, Lady Jehane, though it is no less miraculous, of course. I think we can take you at your word, can we not, gentlemen?”

Here Daimbert frowned, suspecting the local man’s concession smacked of favouritism, a conclusion his colleague seemed to share. “Though I think you were made aware we are busy men, my lady,” Evrard said. “Which begs the question why you neglected to mention this commitment before.”

Jehane produced a creditable simper. “Such announcements are not for a woman to make, _Maistre_ Evrard. And you will accept that there would have been matters to be put in place beforehand; my children’s future, the living arrangements…” She gestured vaguely, the eternal scatterbrained female. “It would be unseemly to have spoken out of place and before time.”

She cast her gaze down again, and a secret smile curved her lips as a roseate gleam caught her eye. Here was a way to play Gisborne at his own game; to pay him back for poking his arrogant nose into her affairs. His intervention had held not a trace of chivalry or good faith, his sole desire to see her squirm. The qualms of conscience she’d felt over the battle for Li Rossinholetz had been misplaced; he deserved everything she’d said and thought of him and more. “But here is the ring he gave me.” She held up a hand, displaying the great balas ruby she’d slid on a finger that morning, for luck and for courage; Lys’ ring! “To that too I can most willingly swear.”

She rose to her feet and stepped towards the desk, grinning inwardly as she noted the tightened lips, the muscle jumping in the stubbled cheek. Now it was she who held the upper hand. I hope he thinks I’m about to twist his weasel words round his neck, she thought. This illusion of a betrothal could be cast aside on a misunderstanding, a technicality thus far. One imprudent word from her could turn the airy confection to solid reality at any time.

The jewelled reliquary glittered in the candle-glow like a living thing. Boldly, Jehane reached out a hand. But the men from Auxerre shook their heads, Daimbert directing her to be seated again. To have insisted further would make them look small-minded and crass, as they must know. Soon they were declaring the interview at an end, gathering up their scrolls and pushing back their chairs. A hasty bow and they were gone from the chamber, black robes flapping, a pair of crows hurrying for their roost.

“They will present their findings for Count Pierre’s decision, of course,” _Maistre_ Alart commented, rising himself. “But the Duchess Eleanor’s influence is far-reaching. I do not envisage further trouble from that quarter. May I be the first to wish you a long and fruitful union, my lord… My lady?” He executed a more mannerly bow of his own.

Jehane drew herself up as the _routier_ strode forward to offer her his arm, his narrow mouth quirking. The matter of the ring had taken them uncomfortably near the brink of the legal abyss. Now it was his turn to retaliate, that taunting half-smile said. Her flesh rebelled at the thought of touching him, but here before witnesses she had no choice. She laid her fingers on the fine black _chainsil_ of his shirt as lightly as she could, soothing herself with a promise to claw the amusement from his face, the moment they were away from prying eyes.

Yet once again Fate had conspired against her. The antechamber and stairway had filled with the rest of the day’s business; gossiping clumps of humanity extended down to the vestibule, while the yard bustled with arrivals and departures. The stable's interior was quiet and dark, but here the steward from Li Rossinholetz awaited them, together with a trembling Ernoul and a silently weeping Berthe.

The villagers cast anxious glances on her as she entered, and all thoughts of gory retribution were laid aside as she set herself to calm their fears, reassuring them that the dispute with Master Laurent Martin was now resolved; pointless to dwell on the sordid details of how and by whom for now. Instead she looked on, hiding white-knuckled fists in the folds of her gown as they discussed the logistics of how to get themselves home. Ernoul would ride on the donkey left behind by the hapless Malger, it was decided at last, while Reynault would take Berthe up behind him on his chestnut.

An unconscionable time seemed to pass before their little train was traversing Avallon’s cobbled streets, making for the gate. The grey gelding snorted uneasily, withers twitching, as the great black stallion ambled at its side, leaving Jehane to reflect that she felt much the same about the man on his back. The urge was strong to put her heels to her horse’s flanks and leave them in the dust, but now it was the eyes of the townsfolk that were upon her, and bolting from one’s betrothed was hardly fitting behaviour in a bride-to-be.

Jostled closer by a herd of pigs headed for market, she contented herself with a cutting remark. “My _heartfelt gratitude_ for today, my lord.”

The cold blue gaze dissected her. “It was my pleasure.” His sudden wolfish grin displayed strong white teeth, leaving her in no doubt as to what form that pleasure took. “Thanks to your Master Martin’s... _skull_ duggery, you were put in an intolerable position.”

“Thanks to yours,” she snapped, refusing to be amused at his play on words as he gave her his smug smile again, “I still am. Pah!” she exploded at last. “You’re no better than he is.”

“Oh,” he purred, deep and low. “Believe me, I’m much worse.”

Jehane rolled her eyes at this masculine posturing. With reason to believe it was no idle boast, it rankled even more. She squared her shoulders, affecting a nonchalance she was far from feeling inside. “The fact remains that I could have done without your interference. I have friends at the court of Dijon who would have vouched for me in time. Now I’ve exchanged one unwanted betrothal for the semblance of another. I’ve seldom witnessed a more cynical manipulation of the truth.”

“I learned at the feet of a master.”

Something in his tone made her rein in and glance at him. His expression had clouded, the sneering relish gone as he stared ahead, eyes fixed on a past he must not remember willingly. It was her first real glimpse of something that lay behind the arrogant exterior and it intrigued her; but the impression was fleeting, the mask soon back in place.

“You flatter yourself, my lady, if you think I intend to hold you to your promise,” he said coldly. “What I have now is enough for me. Why saddle myself with a wife and family, when that family consists of two feral brats and the wife is a shrew?” His laughter came dark and deep from the depths of his throat, and it ghosted over her skin like the breath of the north wind. “To be blunt, I like my women willing in bed. And that I’ve found elsewhere.”

“Then it’s just as well,” she retorted, stung beyond measure, though she would have been hard put to explain why. “Because I’d rather die than be with you.”

“ **SHUT** it!”

Jehane flinched, recoiling in shock as his voice thundered out. A passing cur skittered away to the shelter of a runnel, its tail between its legs. She’d seen him angry or high-handed before; she’d seen him wolfishly amused or coldly predatory, but in none of his moods had he lost command of himself. Now the devil was loose; his horse had stopped dead and he sat its back like some looming black statue, his eyes ablaze in a chalk-white face.

“ _ **SHUT**_ your mouth, woman, for once in your life!”

Jehane clutched at her gelding’s reins, fearful for her safety as her mount pranced and shied. This towering rage was out all proportion; yes, her words had been insulting, and intentionally so, but no worse than he’d dished out to her in the past.

The crowds around them had frozen, as if turned to ice at a sorcerer’s command; slowly they came to life again, bustling nervously on.

“ **NEVER** say that to me again,” he was grating from between clenched teeth. “Did no one teach you not to make promises you’re not prepared to keep?”

The stallion had begun to dance now, and he busied himself with calming the beast. Yet still he continued, biting off his words till they flew at her like poisoned darts. “ And don’t think I came all this way for you. I came to remind your wine merchant that he wasn’t welcome round here, not after the mayhem he caused at my manor,  last time he came courting you.” He paused as they negotiated a narrow gap between two protruding gables. When he spoke again, he was in control of himself once more, his voice as smooth and cool as polished silk. “Since he chose not to appear in person, I thought I’d do my neighbourly duty while I was there and vouch for you .”

Jehane’s eyes narrowed. It would have been enough to confirm she’d made no promises to a man she’d met but once, she thought, bitterly. and that to half-drown him in his own wine. But that wasn’t good enough for Li Rossinholetz’s high-handed busybody of a lord. Belatedly she realised stallion and rider had turned into a side street, her gelding pacing obediently in their wake. “Wait!” she called, digging in her heels and glancing round. Flopears and Reynault’s chestnut were widening the gap between them, following the main thoroughfare. “This is not the way.”

“Yes it is.” The crooked curl of the lips was back, and she couldn’t decide which unnerved her more, the sunshine or the storm. “I had some yearlings to look over and I might as well do that now. Play the dutiful betrothed for the afternoon and come with me.”

Foiled again! Jehane swallowed down her frustration as the townsfolk milled around them, touching caps and forelocks. Again, she could hardly snub him publicly or the men from Auxerre would know she'd lied. And meanwhile her endless round of duties awaited back home, along with her _feral brats_ \- and so they were, she admitted with a grimace, but it had cut deeply to hear the words from him.

Yet as she sat under an awning in the horse coper’s yard, sipping at pleasantly tart watered wine, she found herself intrigued again in spite of herself. Good-for-nothing _routier_ he might be, but he had a knight’s knowledge and love of horseflesh. The harsh features were animated as he discussed the qualities of the merchandise with the dealer; running knowing hands down a hock, checking teeth and brightness of eye with a discerning gaze. And all the time, the great black horse waited docilely, hanging on an occasional quiet word, Indeed, the beast showed greater forbearance than her own mount, though the gelding was tethered to a hitching post and the stallion was free to wander as he pleased.

She frowned unconsciously, her thoughts returning to their previous encounter in the stable yard at Li Rossinholetz. Despite his appearance of an outcast from the more disreputable kind of drinking den, his manner had been almost amenable; offering refreshments, passing on Eleanor’s gift of Lys’ balas ruby ring, urging her to visit Blancheflor whenever she pleased, He'd even promised to banish the children from his manor and his sight, though she suspected that particular favour was not within his power to grant.

“The two bay fillies. What do you think?” He'd strolled up to her with his loose-limbed stride, accepting a sweating clay cup of wine for himself. His interest and enthusiasm caught, he was transformed, the stark lines of his face softening so he might have been his own younger brother.

Collecting her thoughts, Jehane nodded assent. The fillies were the best of a very mixed bunch, liquid of eye and strong of limb.

“My lady approves,” he called to the dealer, quirking a mocking brow in Jehane’s direction at the familiarity. “I’ll send for them tomorrow. Find me some more like that, and you’ll have yourself another sale.” The strong throat moved as he swallowed off the rest of his wine; then he was holding out his arm to lead her through the tedious pantomime of escorting her to her mount and boosting her to its back.

He was not without manners, then, if and when he chose to show them. Yet this only added to her discomfort as they rode off together; she felt unsettled, unpleasantly vulnerable somehow as they rejoined the main thoroughfare. The brooding presence at her side was as oppressive as the late afternoon heat, and once again she longed to gallop ahead till she was back in her own yard and her own home, away from his searching gaze.

“No need for thanks, my lady,” His grin taunted her as he held her gate open for her at Vignoles, while she sailed inside with her nose in the air, offering him none. “As I said, I’ve no intention of burdening myself with a wife. Feel free to carry on our little subterfuge as long as it suits, if it will keep the wolves at bay.”

With the exception of the leader of the pack, Jehane reflected with an inner prickle of chill despite the lingering heat of the day. This sudden show of what would pass as consideration in another man disturbed her more than his hostility; though he had a vested interest in keeping himself out of the marriage mart, being set up to his liking with his jewel of a manor and an accommodating bed-mate on the side. Hadn’t he just spelled it out to her in no uncertain terms?

It was exactly the life Robert would have chosen, given the chance. Not that he’d hesitated to do just as he pleased, and with less discretion too. No whisper of gossip about her neighbour’s amorous exploits had come to her thus far; his shortcomings were many, but he must draw the line at fouling his own nest.

Her late lord husband had shown no such scruples. leaving her to deal with the consequences and she was still not free of them. The old headman’s inquisitive strangers had proved to be men from the chancery at Auxerre; yet the fact remained that the recent round of random thievery had been too petty and too protracted to be ascribed to the wine merchant’s schemes. There was no escaping it; the old trouble was starting again. But they’d survived all that before.

“I’m more than capable of looking after myself,” she answered ungraciously, fiercely determined to do just that. What were a few missing pies and cheeses or a trampled vegetable plot? It never lasted more than a few weeks at a time and then it went away.

The _routier_ shrugged and turned his stallion’s nose to the road. “Suit yourself.” He paused before putting heels to the horse’s flanks. “From tomorrow I will have business elsewhere. Visit your mare. She’s pining for you.”

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-six.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**  
  
The summer had played out its last days of extreme heat, yet the sun was a blinding white ball that hung high in the heavens as Gisborne turned into the lane that would bring him home.

The horse coper in Avallon had let slip some interesting information in the course of their negotiations; the bulk of his stock came from a trader who sold the gleanings of five regions at a small market town in the county of Nevers. Gisborne had decided that a visit could be profitable; the resources of the manor were still healthy, but they were by no means boundless. It would be to his advantage to cut out the middle man.

It had provided him with the perfect opportunity to distance himself from the manor of Vignoles and his dealings with everything and everyone there; it also served as a distraction from certain other unsettling reflections that intruded on his idle hours.

 _She had a most tender regard for you_...…

He still had no idea what that could have meant in the mind of a woman he’d known for a few short days.

 _It’s about wishing you had what you need,_ the quiet voice reminded him once more.

Yet he had everything he wanted or needed now. He’d said as much to his hot-headed nearest neighbour, and he believed it too - except on rare occasions when his guard was down. Then that small cold hollow rose up to mock his complacency; though the remedy was simple of course. Never lose control of himself again.

So he’d put on his oldest clothes and headed for the town of Nolay, some fifteen leagues to the south-west, playing his own head groom. A stoic Reynault rode along as a stable hand, uncomfortable in faded homespun instead of his usual neat attire. Now they were returning with lighter purses and a slew of successful purchases under their belts.

The four mares were thin and ill-kempt, but their breeding was apparent if you looked close enough, while the grey dapple was showing early signs of being in foal. They’d found several promising yearlings as well, a mixed batch of colts and fillies, all with qualities the trader had missed in his haste to turn a quick profit and move on; the perfect deal for someone with the time and the interest to cosset them into their true worth.

They’d taken the return in easy stages, sparing the horses in the fierce heat. They should have been home by now, but the morning’s start had been delayed; one of the colts had slipped its tether to go wandering and it had taken a while to chivvy him back to the string.

Gisborne narrowed his eyes as they rounded the bend and the manor of Li Rossinholetz came into view. Floating blots of shadow crossed his field of vision; was the sun-dazzle deceiving him, or was the gate to the stable yard awry?

Flinging the steward a quick word of caution, he urged the stallion onwards, hoping he was wrong, but the sight that greeted him was not reassuring at all. The gate slumped on a single hinge, while the once-pristine gravel was churned and scarred. Of more immediate concern was the stable door; it stood ajar, the hasp and staple torn from the wood. He slid from his mount and strode across the yard, drawing his sword. But he was too late. Whoever was responsible for the damage was long gone. And so was Blancheflor!

His first thought was she’d been reclaimed by her owner, though on closer inspection, he could see the leather traces had been slashed; the tattered remains dangled from the hitching ring,  the work of rough impatient hands... Movement in the tail of his eye alerted him to a presence behind him. He whirled - and breathed again as he registered its identity; Reynault, horn-handled knife at the ready. Their gazes met as each asked the same wordless question. Who has done this?

Was it his neighbour’s doing after all; her idea of petty revenge? She’d been fighting for survival that day in Avallon, and he’d succumbed to the dark side, baiting her with his smug smiles, his glib ambiguities that sailed dangerously close to the wind. He’d had to admire her quick thinking; she'd negotiated the legal quicksand with aplomb, while that business with the ring had been just deserts. making him hold his breath in the expectation of some misstep, some careless wording that would leave him high and dry. The one-time small boy who’d poked a stick into an ant’s nest should have known better; no angry insect could have mounted a deadlier counter-attack. And still he’d lacked the sense to leave well enough alone; he'd dragged her along to the horse dealer’s, forcing her to act the dutiful betrothed.

Yet unlike her devious daughter, underhand dealings were not the lady Jehane’s style. When she fought him it would be face to face, with the fire betokened by her hair or the ice of her steely resolve. This left her would-be suitor; the merchant must still have been smarting from his earlier rout at his, Gisborne’s hands. The foiling of his plans before the officials from Auxerre could only have stoked his ire.

A cursory glance revealed that the house itself was still shuttered and barred. Gisborne instructed the steward to secure their new purchases in the paddock and went to investigate. Blade at the ready, he stepped with cat-like caution in the shadow of the mellow stone walls. Suddenly he tensed; a shutter had been torn away and flung to the ground; the very shutter that had given him entrance all those weeks ago. Whoever was responsible for the shoddy repair would soon find himself explaining the neglect to his lord!

Setting aside the reflection for now, he peered into the interior, straining his ears. All was quiet; it was possible the intruders had already moved on, which argued against the involvement of Laurent Martin. The merchant would have aimed higher than a single mare, minor damage to a shutter and gate and a little churned up gravel in the yard; he would have forced his way in, blatantly, via the front door, and proceeded to occupy the place as a demonstration of his contempt.

Cautiously, Gisborne inched over the sill, dropping down to the cool stone on silent feet. It was still possible one or more of the interlopers was inside, gone to ground on hearing his approach. A glance to his right revealed that the door to the undercroft was half open; darkness and silence prevailed within, but a candle stub lay on the threshold, crushed by an unheeding boot, and the flint was gone from the sconce. Someone had been here for sure.

Stifling an oath, he felt his way to the kitchen and lit a taper from the scattered coals on the hearth. The narrow yellow tongue twisted and flared on a turmoil of gaping drawers; a jumble of dented pots and pans had been swept from their racks to lie in disarray. Next door, the linen press had fared no better; a flood of sheets and towels spewed from open coffers and shelves, dusty footprints fouling their herb-scented folds.

He returned to the undercroft and cursed again, his lips twisting in distaste. It was not difficult to guess what he’d find here, and he was not proved wrong. The taper’s flame guttered and gleamed on great gaps on the shelves, marring the once-neat rows of stores; cheeses and hams were gone, together with crocks of preserves and honey and the sack of apples from its corner stash. Smashed jars and overturned barrels littered the floor, preserves, pickles and salt herring mingling in a glutinous heap that stank of fish-oil and verjuice.

He froze as a faint plangent sound emanated from the buttery...

There it was again!

Then he relaxed, recognising the plash of liquid on stone. He eased the door open, to be greeted by the sourness of spilt wine; a tapped barrel was dripping out its contents in a sluggish stream. The cask rang to his slap on the side; more had gone than was indicated by the widening puddle on the floor. The far door showed no signs of tampering since he’d opened it himself all those weeks ago. A tell-tale tracery of rust remained on the bolt; no one could have gone out that way. He strained his ears again, listening for the sound of footsteps, disturbed by the hollow boom of the cask, but none came. Whoever had drawn off the wine was no longer here.

So where were the women whose duty it was to come in and clean each day, whether he was here at Li Rossinholetz or not? They should have alerted their menfolk as soon as the intruders struck. Heads would roll, he promised himself for the second time that day. Was he never to enjoy what was his in peace?

Gisborne tamped down his frustration as he strode through the house, making sure that the intruders had left, and forcing himself to think matters through with an even mind. In the main hall, fixtures and belongings lay in tangled heaps. He was missing a candlestick or two as far as he could judge, and the cushions from the settle, but he saw nothing here that would testify as to the identity of the thieves; not a metal closure from a tunic nor snagged thread from a sleeve. An inspection of the upper floor gave further evidence of the perfunctory nature of their search; the new sets of leathers and linen still lay in the bottom of his clothing coffer, safe beneath protective layers of well-worn breeches and shirts.

All the evidence pointed to an opportunist raid by a small and undisciplined gang. They'd taken only what they could carry on horseback or on foot, filling pouches and costrels rather than manhandling bales and barrels away. But time was wasting. Hopes of catching the miscreants red-handed were diminishing fast. They must be well away by now, and with them any clue as to the fate of the pregnant mare. It was no surprise that she’d been targeted; she was one of the manor’s most valuable assets, along with the small stash of coin, still safely buried under the floor of the barn for he’d seen no sign of digging there. Blancheflor was fully portable on her own four feet.

He strode to the front door and went out into the yard, examining his surroundings for anything he might have missed, but the sea of churned up mud and gravel offered no clue as to the direction an intruder might take.

Then his nostrils flared.

Woodsmoke!

He scanned the horizon, shading his eyes from the afternoon glare.

There. Where the trees grew thick along the bank of the river - a narrow spiral, like a thread of homespun curling from a spindle in the sky. A campfire?

Then an equine scream raked across his perceptions, like a fork of lightening splitting the sky. And behind it came the muffled sounds of jeers and raucous cheering.

Blancheflor!

Reynault had settled their purchases in and walked up from the paddock by now. Gisborne exchanged a hurried glance with his steward and put two fingers in his mouth to summon his horse. “Messire,” the retainer cautioned as his master threw himself astride the stallion’s back. “There is no telling how many of them there are.”

Li Rossinholetz’s lord glared down at him from his lofty vantage point. “You’d better go and rouse the village, then,” he snarled. “Why weren’t they here at the first sign of trouble? Do those idle louts always spend the day in bed the moment my back’s turned?”

The retainer reddened and nodded tightly. Gisborne didn’t wait for him to remount his chestnut, let alone for the sound of receding hooves. The mare was screaming again and it cut at him like knives.

 

 **The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon**.

The lemon water was delicious; tart, yet with the rich sweetness of honey drizzled straight from the comb.

The honey crock had mislaid itself somehow, along with too many other things; but that was a thought for another day. Jehane took an appreciative sip from her cup, enjoying the moment as she chose a crisp wafer from the platter with the leopard-head handles, a rare survivor from the wine merchant’s raid.

Was it only a week ago that the courier had bowed before her in his white and mulberry livery, producing a roll of parchment from his pouch that set her heart knocking against her ribs? She’d not dared to hope for an answer from Dijon so soon; Maheult was a busy woman, and busier still these days. With a new duchess still to be found, much of the running of the women’s side of the court had fallen to her. Belatedly Jehane had remembered her duty, setting her qualms aside and directing the messenger to the kitchen door where Berthe had been churning buttermilk again, for the morning’s batch was mysteriously gone. The cool drink would be more to his taste than the thin, sour wine that was all she had to offer so late in the year.

The courier’s needs addressed, she’d made for the shady solitude behind the barn, to sit on a tree-stump with her message and digest its contents away from prying young eyes. The _routier’_ s intervention had been as arrogant as it was unwelcome, but it seemed to have appeased Count Pierre’s agents for now. Yet Master Martin was not a man to give in so easily; the oath of some nobody from a minor country manor would count for little if he could persuade his patron to pursue his claim.The word of the lady Maheult, mainstay of the Dijon court, would be a different matter indeed.

Or so Jehane had told herself on those nights when sleep eluded her. With a ragged sigh, she’d slid a nail under the neat wax seal and smoothed the parchment out on her knee.

 _My dear_ , Maheult had written.

_I was appalled to learn you are still so beset by your importunate suitor. Would that you could find some worthy partner to share your life and keep you from such unpleasantness..._

Here Jehane had looked up, a tight smile on her lips. Chafing dishes and flames came to mind. By the grace of Our Lady, Gisborne was as reluctant as she was to advance his suit. She’d seen nothing of him since that blazing August day in Avallon; now September was almost upon them, the butter-pale daylight of high summer showing signs of mellowing to autumn gold.

 _Praise the Virgin and all the Saints_ , Maheult had continued, _I have some standing here at court. I am pleased to inform you that my sworn and witnessed affidavit refuting Master Martin’s claim travels to Auxerre by this same courier…_

Jehane had roused herself from her delighted daze and gone to ensure the lackadaisical Ham was having an eye to the messenger’s horse. The man having duly departed, she'd been sitting in the main hall with a beaker of buttermilk for herself, before she noticed that the neat script of Maheult’s clerk continued on the reverse of the parchment she'd been reading and re-reading with such relief.

 _Now my dear_ , the message had said.

_It is in the name of our friendship that I venture to ask this of you. A young kinswoman of mine was wed in Troyes to a knight of Champagne, shortly after the feast of Saint John. Since when her new husband was sent with all dispatch to Outremer to serve the King of Jerusalem as seneschal, for the lord Henry had lost the former holder of that position to the bloody flux._

_She thought to pass their time apart in the guest house at Fontevrault, where she might serve the Duchess Eleanor and pray at the tomb of her late mistress and friend. Alas, she must now make the journey in slow stages, for she has but recently lost the child that was the cause of her remaining behind in France. As you and she should have much in common, I dared to hope her visit would be to your mutual benefit..._

And so it had proved. The small contingent had arrived within days, laden with goods and gifts. Guards were billeted in the outbuildings, travel beds set up for the women in the main bedchamber while Jehane herself had gone in with the children. What was more, the elderly lady who was her guest’s companion had taken charge of the running of the household to the delight of all, save for the initial resentment of Berthe who soon warmed to the newcomer with the lightening of her load.

For Jehane, it was a rare luxury to linger over dainty refreshments and indulge in easy conversation with another female of her rank. Her young visitor was pale and drawn after her loss, but she was not the kind to dwell on her sorrows and Jehane had taken to her at once. Indeed, she felt lighter and freer from care than she’d done for years, tasting something of the heady joy of youth again as they compared life experiences, laughing and joking together over all manner of things.

Smiling, she poured more lemon-water for her guest and replenished her own cup.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-seven.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Down by the river, two men were jousting with rough poles cut from nearby trees. A half-dozen or so of their companions lounged on the sidelines, drinking from wineskins and costrels and urging them on.

This was not their first tilt by any means; there was foam in the mare’s nostrils, while the scrawny dun snorted its weariness, haunches quivering as its rider swung into a tight turn and sent it thundering down the glade.

Blancheflor screamed again as the flat of a blade bloodied her milk-white rump. Gisborne put his heels to the stallion’s flanks and charged, his sword whispering from its sheath. He was conscious only of blurred shapes that came at him with cudgels and knives, shouting, and the acrid smell of unwashed male flesh in unlaundered clothes. Contemptuously he batted his assailants aside, butting the stallion‘s bulk against the dun and dragging its struggling rider from its back. Then he headed for the man on the mare.

By now the others had recovered their senses and were racing towards him, a deadly confusion of milling bodies and clashing steel. Gisborne winced as a knotted club impacted his sword arm, numbing his fingers; these men fought in wild reckless swings with no skill, but he was one against their many and to drop his blade would be the end of him. Willing his grip to hold, he battled through the pain, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a rictus snarl.

An age went by before he heard shouts and the village men were spilling onto the scene, brandishing billhooks, mattocks and staves. Gisborne withdrew from the fray and flexed his abused fingers, looking on as the invaders were subdued and bound; a motley collection of common thugs, though an inner core of two or three sported modest finery that had seen better days.

Their leader was young, scarcely more than a boy, and clean-cut in his tunic of faded crimson with borders of tarnished broderie if you ignored the lank hair and the greasy shadow of peach-fuzz on his upper lip. He shrugged off his captors and struggled to his feet, sneering, as Gisborne strode over to gentle the trembling mare.

“I expect you’re going to tell me you have a perfectly good explanation for this.” Vaisey’s one-time enforcer growled his displeasure over a shoulder as he ran his hands over the heated flanks and hocks, searching for injuries, or worse; the rhythmic muscular contractions that would confirm his deepest fears. His prisoner looked him up and down, dismissing Gisborne in his travel-stained clothing with undisguised contempt. Narrowed moss-agate eyes peered through a thicket of tow-coloured hair in a combination was oddly familiar; a faded copy of an original from a more skilled hand.

“I have more rights hereabouts than you, _peasant_.” The youth turned aside to spit on the ground. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t help myself to a little food here and there, since it was going spare. Same goes for that fine piece of horseflesh over there.” He indicated the cowering Blancheflor with a jerk of his chin. “Being as it's valued so little it was left kicking in its stall.”

Gisborne had completed his examination of the mare. Her injuries were superficial and mainly to her dignity as far as he could ascertain, but her breathing was laboured and her gaze was wild. Only time would tell if she would lose the foal. He advanced on his captive, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Don’t. Speak. To me of rights.” An imperious jab of a forefinger underscored each phrase. “A horse-thief’s only rights are a rope and a branch of the nearest tree.”

“I’m no horse-thief.” The defiant young layabout squared his shoulders and swaggered in his bonds. “I’m the eldest son of Robert de Saint Aubin, lord of the manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon, God rot his cheating soul. By your precious _rights_ , the mare and everything else on his manor belong to me.”

“Nah then, Fitz, don't go forgetting us or we'll be taking it wrong!” The grunted reminder came from somewhere among the knot of intruders, seated on the trampled grass by now with their hands tied behind their backs.

“My half-brothers,” their leader acknowledged with a nod towards the better-dressed pair of the gang.

So this explained his initial sense of déjà vu... Could he be looking at the future of Thierry de Saint Aubin if the lad didn't mend his ways? Shaking off the thought, Gisborne folded his arms and raised a brow.  “Last time I looked,” he said with deceptive mildness, “This was the manor of Li Rossinholetz.”

The cocky youth snorted his derision. “Think I was born yesterday?” He spat another gobbet of phlegm. “I had my eye on that mare for days, back at Vignoles, before that ginger bitch brought her over here.”

“And the food and wine from our undercroft and the other things you stole from this manor? Did the... _ginger bitch_ bring all that from Vignoles?”

The young ruffian curled his lip. “It’s always slim pickings over there, thanks to our dear papa and his expensive ways.  So what's it to you if this is Li Rossinholetz?" He shrugged nonchalantly. “It was my mother’s village. I reckon I’m owed a share in what she helped put together with the sweat of her brow. Not to mention her cunt,” he concluded with a triumphant leer.

“You never said your ma was a lady of the manor, Fitz,” one of the brothers sang out, to the accompaniment of jeers and cat-calls from the rest.

“At least she was an honest country-woman, not a common camp-follower like yours,” ‘Fitz’ flung back.

“Norbert here left before my time, Messire.” Reynault had walked over, wiping a smut from his brow with a massaging finger as he came. “But he returns to hang around the district every now and then. The brothers I have not seen before, but there is no reason to think they are not who they say they are. Messire Robert had a reputation for the sowing of wild oats.”

And a wilder collection of good-for-nothings you’d never wish to meet, Gisborne thought with a grimace. The one named Norbert continued to stand his ground meanwhile, his swagger undiminished. “What do you expect with a wife that refused to quicken?” he scoffed. “Seven years wed and nothing to show for it – and then she whelps a girl. A man has a right to show the world it wasn’t his seed that was at fault.”

His half-brothers and cronies rumbled assent from where they slouched at their ease. “Three years on, and then the boy was a runt. Sickly too, I’ll be bound,” someone put in. “Better watch hisself, is all I can say. Don’t want somethin’ narsty to happen to him one of these days.”

Wide grins split all faces at this sally, as if the seriousness of their situation meant nothing to them. Had he ever been this young or this arrogant? Gisborne wondered. There was a fine line between courage and foolish bravado, and these men showed no hesitation in crossing it.

Indeed, no prompting was needed for them to volunteer the full story; they seemed to revel in every last boastful fact. Norbert FitzAubin had been raised on the tourney circuit, having run away from his village at the age of ten, hoping to join his father yet never managing to catch up with him for more than an occasional unsatisfactory day or two of cuffs, a crust from the cook tent and the odd begrudged coin. His luck had changed when he'd found and bonded with his half-brothers; a small band had formed, existing on the crumbs that fell at richer campfires at first, then graduating to gambling, trading and brokering the services of washer-women, cooks and whores.

A thickset thug with a ragged growth of beard hawked pleasurably and sent his own stream of spittle onto the grass. “Liked a flutter too, did Messire Robert,” he pronounced.

“He’d wager on whether his destrier would rip one out before you could count to ten,” a comrade put in. “Lost his tourney winnings as fast as he came by them, and then he’d start on the few bits he could get together from that barren wife of his.”

Another, a half-brother to judge by his clothing and colouring, emitted a hoarse chuckle. “Remember that time when he was in heavy with that knight from Picardy, and he threw her betrothal ring into the pot? Cheated him good, like he’d cheated her; them stones weren’t nothing but chips of coloured glass.”

“He owed us a pretty penny by the time the boar got him,” said a raw-boned fellow with a scarred and pitted face. “Never had the chance to come and recoup our losses, what with Avallon being too far off the circuit to make it worth our while.”

Anséric de Montréal's tourney had seemed like Fate. They’d drifted here along with the hordes and hung around ever since, spying out the land. Vignoles had been a not unexpected disappointment, despite the refurbishment which had thrown them off their stride at first. A few pies and cheeses, a chicken or two and the odd trinket were all it had provided, especially when they woke from a night of roistering with stolen drink from an expedition further afield to find the mare had been moved.

So Norbert had been designated to saunter into the village at Li Rossinholetz, whistling, the picture of bonhomie as he slapped old acquaintances on the back. Soon he'd been plying the male population with beakers of rough wine at the nearest rustic tavern.;  in the morning, the women had shrugged philosophically at the general drunken stupor; then they'd shouldered their infants and gone to the fields in their place, leaving the way clear for Norbert FitzAubin and his merry band of thieves.

“Worked like a dream,” Norbert concluded, exchanging a wink with his men. “So if you’ll be good enough to untie us now, we’ll be on our way.”

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

The children had established themselves on the landing above with their own supply of delicacies. Giggles and muffled shrieks filtered down as they took turns at their new board game, where dragons and mailed knights roamed a fabled landscape of forests and castles at the throw of a dice.

Jehane bit into her crisp wafer and marvelled anew at her guest’s skill with a needle and thread;  dreamscapes flowed from her nimble fingers, more exquisite and more colourful than any in the game. First it had been a hunting scene for a tunic in russet wool; harts and hounds ran through an enchanted woodland, with conies and foxes hidden in the secret depths of bush and bramble patch. Today a profusion of flowers bloomed to deck a mantle hem.

By common consent, the women had touched but briefly on the subject closest to their hearts; postponing heavier matters in the enjoyment of new acquaintance and the rare luxury of inconsequential female talk. Jehane had not felt so relaxed since those hours of lazy limbo on the river, when she'd trailed a hand in the water and closed her mind to all but the dreaming of dreams.

Dusting off her fingers, she picked up her own needle and returned to the seam on the Lincoln green tunic she was sewing for her small son. Such exquisite stitchery was beyond her skill, though she’d been cheered by the offer of help with veils and a gown or two for herself. Creamy silk and a length of finest green wool had been among the recent gifts; there’d be enough left for Aubrey as well, provided the wretched child would stay still long enough to be fitted properly.

Now where were her small silver shears; gone from her workbasket along with the thimble she’d lost a week ago? Her heart sank. She could no longer ignore the truth she’d been trying to deny; Norbert was making one of his visits again.  The boy had had been intractable from childhood, running off to the life of a thief and vagabond till his mother had died of her shame. Past offers of help, of a place and honourable position on the manor had been turned away with a sneer, though she could scarcely have afforded it out of her meagre purse.

She'd be safe from the worst of his petty harassment while her guests and their guardsmen remained; she must hope he would have moved on by the time she was alone again as he usually did. But what of the future? Maheult’s testimony had driven one wolf from her door, yet here was a renegade cub to snap at her heels whenever he pleased.

Sufficient unto the day, as Father Joscelin always said. Besides, she refused to cower in the shadow of the leader of the pack and his 'little subterfuge'. Chiding herself for spoiling the pleasure of the moment, Jehane reached for the proffered pair of shears from her guest’s coffer, cutting off these pointless speculations along with her thread.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-eight.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

Gisborne was later to admit that young ruffian’s nonchalant air should have been a warning to him.

There was a rustle and clink behind him; then snatches of coarse banter and the heavy tramp of boots. Heads turned as a file of rough men emerged from the cover of the trees, glassy-eyed conies and lines of quicksilver fish dangling at their belts. The rest of the company were back with dinner and there were over a dozen of them.

Gisborne glowered and cursed himself as long knives appeared in calloused hands and gnarled fingers stroked cudgels meaningfully. Two of the newcomers advanced towards him, crossbows loaded and cocked.

“So before we leave, you might like to hand over all that coin you’ve stashed somewhere,” crowed an exultant Norbert, who was almost dancing with glee. “Any plate or other valuables you've got hidden away.”

“For our trouble, like...” A half-brother rubbed at his wrists as another of their number slouched over to slit his bonds. “Seeing as we came all this way to collect our dues.”

“Must be a mite of interest owed us by now,” added a crossbowman; the predatory grin that split his swarthy face was eerily like Vaisey’s, down to the missing tooth. “That fancy black nag of yourn’ll do us for a start.”

Flame ignited in Gisborne’s brain. Time and circumstance had pushed him past the limit of prudence at last. “Come and get him,” he jeered.

And in an instant the stallion was striking out with hooves and teeth, driving his assailants back, knocking their crossbows from their hands before they could think to loose their bolts. In the brief lull of disbelief that followed, Gisborne slapped the beast on the rump, sending him out of danger; then he went forward to defend what was his.

He was done with caution, done with skill and precision, his senses reduced to the sword in his hand and the fire behind his eyes. There was no fear, no forethought; he was oblivious to cudgel blows, the quick hot quick slash from a blade or the scream of his protesting scars. Life was cruel, and he raged against its malevolent games; each slight, each betrayal, each loss and humiliation it had dealt out to him.

Reynault fought on beside him, a cooler, calmer shadow as the village men gathered their wits and weighed in again. But they were losing; the opposition was graceless and blundering, but they were desperate men, hardened to whipcord and steel by a lifetime of violence and crime. Gisborne gritted his teeth as two of his tenants peeled off and ran for it. He’d had his steward send wedding gifts to the one and taken the small son of the other as a stable boy. So much for loyalty! He reeled as a blow from behind all but took him off his feet. Staggering, he licked dry lips and willed himself to fight on, battered and bloody, his mouth tautened in a grimace.

Then suddenly, miraculously, the relentless pressure was gone; a number of the intruders were down and bleeding, their huddled forms tangling underfoot. Gisborne brushed the sweat and gore from his face to see a crowd of homespun-clad villagers clutching rakes and scythes, the rustic weapons already slick with blood. With a bark of wild laughter he saw the runaways were back, bringing with them the men from Vignoles. And Malger and his band of trouble-makers were among them,  youths who’d wreaked havoc at Li Rossinholetz all those weeks ago over the favours of a girl. The prospect of a good fight must have lured them here to join in the fun.

And then it was over. He rested the point of his sword on the ground, looking about him as his breathing slowed. Here and there men lay dead or groaning in their pain; much to his pleasure, the majority were from among the robber band. Already the uninjured villagers were tending to their fellows and closing the eyes of the two that were beyond help. No family on either manor would lose out because of this day, Gisborne vowed; they would want for nothing for the rest of their lives. It was no more than his duty as lord of Li Rossinholetz.

“Finish them off,” he said coldly, with a curt nod in the direction of the enemy dying. “And string the rest of them up.”

“You can’t do that!”

Norbert’s once-confident tones had dwindled to an adolescent squeak. He’d survived with cuts and bruises; no credit to his fighting skills, for he’d stationed himself in the midst of his comrades when the final fray began. Now he struggled against newly-tied bonds in an attempt to come to his feet. “You can’t hang a man without a fair trial,” he said, his chin jutting defiantly.

Gisborne strode over and leaned in close. “This is my manor, runt,” he hissed. “Here, I am the law. As for a trial,” he added unpleasantly, “You’ve just had one...” He drew back, baring his teeth in a feral smile. “Trial by combat. You lost.”

Reynault’s gaze held his for a moment, but his lord ignored the unspoken query in the widened brown eyes. Unlike Li Rossinholetz’ late lady, he was in no position to afford mercy, even if he’d been so inclined. She'd had the might of her rank and royal connections behind her, but he would look weak and wavering to his tenants if he relented now. What was more, he’d lay himself open to a future of harassment by gangs of petty thieves once news of his leniency got round. Humanity was a weakness at times, and this was one of them.

And of course, he was angry. Rage still consumed him like a flame; rage against the thoughtless treatment of an innocent beast, rage against these constant invasions of his property and his privacy, and, still smouldering away in the background, rage against the female sex whose whims and underhand dealings had robbed him of his peace of mind.

And nothing good ever came of pushing Guy of Gisborne too far.

From her pedestal, an increasingly transparent shade looked down at him, pale and ethereal, a rueful smile on her face.

 _Marian_...

No one knew that better than she. What would the better man have done, the man she’d wanted him to be? He was losing the last traces of her memory now, as he deserved to do. He might no longer live in hell; here in Burgundy, but sooner or later he'd be headed that way. He stalked away with a bitter twist of the lips. The villagers had made the decision for him anyway; already the first of the intruders were kicking and voiding their bowels from the branches of a tree like clusters of rotting plums.

Reynault had fallen in at his side. “An unpleasant business,” the steward said as he paced along, head down and hands behind his back. Gisborne stiffened, suspecting condemnation in the words but the other man continued to speak. “I blame myself, Messire,” he said, his jaw tight. “I should have known there would still be tourney riff-raff in the area and  planned accordingly. And Norbert was a trouble-maker from a young boy, lying and stealing and giving himself airs. His visits should have been taken more seriously here at Li Rossinholetz.”

They’d reached the clearing where the robber band had spread their bed-rolls and other gear. Discarded bones from fish and fowl scattered the grass, interspersed with broken pots and festering rags, adding the stink of slow decay to the smoke of a dying fire. A sorry collection of horseflesh slumped nearby, morose in the heat and tethered too tightly for them to crop the grass. They were gaunt, raw-boned creatures for the most, yellow of teeth and dull of eye, their hides covered in dust and saddle-galls.

“Dog meat,” Reynault observed, not concealing his disgust.

“We’ll see. I learned to ignore what they say about gift horses at one stage in my life.” As a penniless young squire in France, such lack of attention had cost him dear a time or two on the tourney field, a showy prize hiding age or a broken wind. Gisborne went over for a closer look, prising a whiskered muzzle open and examining the teeth. Still a youngish animal here. They were thin and bedraggled, the lot of them, but on the whole their bones were strong; a few months’ care and something might be made of them.

He rejoined his steward who was turning over the noisome array of saddle rolls with the toe of a boot. Cheap trinkets tumbled out among moulding heels of bread and crusted hunks of cheese, pickings from earlier raids; a little pewter ointment box, a hair-pin set with a cloudy lump of Baltic amber, the small silver shears women used to snip off their embroidery threads. His mother had owned such a pair; all at once he could see her, sitting at their fire on a winter night, pins held in her mouth,..  He compressed his lips and turned away.

And as he did so, there in the corner where the sun caught it, there was a fiery flash tinged with rose. Gisborne went to retrieve it from its resting place among the grass.

 

**The Manor of Vignoles-sous-Avallon.**

Jehane started as a rap came at the kitchen door. What now?  Too often, callers had been the bearers of bad news.

There was a swift shuffle thither and hence, after which Berthe appeared with the little bob of a curtsey learned from their guests; already the girl was fancying herself a step further up the ladder from the kitchen, it seemed.

“Steward Reynault’s here, mum,” she announced, a little breathless in her new-found zeal to be the perfect maidservant. “I said as how you’d got company, so he wouldn’t walk in.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

Berthe shook her head and hopped from foot to foot. “He begged the favour of a word with you.”

Jehane shot an apologetic glance at her guest, who smiled, then bent her head to her broiderie. “Very well. Ask him to step into the kitchen, then.”

 

“My lady.” Punctilious as always, Reynault rose to his feet as she entered, inclining his head. “No aspersions on young Berthe there, but my lord instructed me to put this into your hands, and yours alone.”

He held out a closed fist and Jehane found herself holding a nugget of metal and smooth stone, still warm from his grasp. To her shamed surprise, when she opened her fingers, Lys’ balas ruby ring lay on her palm.

“We found it among the booty in a robber’s camp down by the river.” The steward’s honest square face was scrupulously devoid of expression, as it always was when he had unpleasant things to say. How could she have failed to notice it was gone? There was little enough in her jewellery casket to disguise the fact that it was missing. It was all of a piece with the rash of petty disappearances, but this was her sole memento of her childhood friend and it had been remiss of her not to take more care of it.

“Tourney rabble, my lady,” Reynault informed her, at her questioning look. “Young Norbert at the head of them, as you might have guessed, and with two of his half brothers along for the ride. We caught them before they made with their loot... Including your mare.” He held up a finger as Jehane’s hand went to her mouth. “She and the foal are unharmed,” he soothed. “Though I gather my lord himself will be bedding down in the stable tonight as a precaution. As for Norbert and his cronies, they won’t be bothering us again,” he concluded with grim satisfaction. “He strung them up, the lot of them.”

Norbert again... So there had been no mistake. But hanged, together with all who rode with him? By the letter of the law, the _routier_ was well within his rights, but it was a rough kind of justice all the same.

Yet it was a relief to know she’d no longer suffer the periodic bouts of malice and petty thievery, saddening though it was that Robert’s lofty indifference to his responsibilities had ensured the youth never stood a chance in life. His father's cavalier treatment had led him to scorn what help she’d offered, preferring to seize what he wanted instead.

 

“Trouble?”

The lady Adela looked up from the confection of a life-like bumblebee as Jehane rejoined her in the main hall.

“Not as such,” she answered, suppressing a sigh. “My neighbour’s steward had come to return something to me.”

“My lady’s ring,” the other woman breathed as it was held out for her to see. All at once, the presence of their late friend and companion was palpable, the awareness of their mutual loss Immediate and strong.

“All I have left of her, beyond the memories, and I never noticed it was gone.” Jehane strove to be matter of fact, but her voice rang hollow with guilt and grief. “As if he didn’t have enough to gloat over already.”

Adela ducked her veiled head and took a stitch at her bee. “We don’t all have the luxury to dwell on each small detail,” she comforted. “You have a household, children and a manor to run, with limited resources and few hands to share the load, as far as I have seen.” She secured her needle in the fat little rust and gold body, then glanced up again, a frown marring the fine pale skin of her brow. “But who is this of whom you speak with such bitterness? The man who came to your door just now?”

“He is that man’s master; my neighbour, for my sins, and the bane of my life.” Jehane stared ahead, her expression hardening. “Would that he had a tenth part of your charity, Lady Adela. He takes pleasure in pointing out the least shortfall in my role as lady of Vignoles. This matter of the ring will be fresh fuel for his sniping.” She gave her guest a tight smile. “If only this was the greatest of my transgressions in my dealings with him.”

Suddenly, it seemed infinitely attractive to unburden herself to this new acquaintance of hers. Young Adela might be, but there was a kindness to her and a serene strength that went beyond her years. Combined with her lively sense of fun, she was a welcome confidante.

Swiftly, Jehane sketched in the details of the battle over the ownership of Li Rossinholetz and the circumstances that led up to it; Lys’ change of heart on the subject and the theft of the jewels that were to have been hers in lieu. “I fought him tooth and nail, Lady Adela. In my zeal I was often... less than dignified.”

_Barfleur fishwife..._

Her cheeks grew hot at his remembered taunts. “You can imagine my mortification when I learned it was I who was in the wrong.”

Adela’s eyes were warm with understanding, born perhaps of a shared tendency to a volatile nature, deeply buried in her case but signaled by her own red hair. Thus encouraged, Jehane continued the tale. “Since then the enmity hangs over us like a thundercloud, and it does not help that Messire Gisborne never misses an opportunity to drive my humiliation home.”

She was about to recount the latest debacle; the Auxerre wine merchant’s designs on her person and property and the embarrassment of having to play along with her neighbour’s counter-claim, but her guest had frowned again upon the mention of his name.

“You knew of him, then, my lady?”

Adela’s fingers hovered over her casket of silks, before teasing out a sable thread to work the antennae of her bee. “Dark and tall? Hawk-faced, with cold blue eyes that would freeze you at a hundred paces?” She threaded her needle, deep in thought. “Indeed, no _parfait gentil knight_ , as I recall,” she observed eventually. “But handsome in his way.”

Handsome? Not ill-favoured? Was the whole of Christendom bent on selling him to her, like a gaggle of market traders crying their wares? Unbidden, the memory surfaced of that afternoon at the horse-coper’s yard, when she’d glimpsed another side of him; interested, engaged, the master of his field; enmity and cynicism cast aside in the pleasure of the hunt for promising horseflesh at a bargain price. Yet how was this relevant when what little light Jehane might have discerned in him lay hidden beneath a bushel of aggression and hostility?

A still small voice reminded her of an earlier occasion; the awful morning when she’d surrendered Blancheflor to him, feeling the last drops of joy were squeezed from her life. There’d been no taunts then; in fact he’d been almost conciliatory, urging her to visit the mare whenever she wished, passing on Eleanor’s gift when he could have kept it for himself. Lys’ ring, the very one she had brandished before officialdom to pay him back for meddling in her affairs. It had been a mean-spirited gesture on her part, and ill-advised.

Adela had tied off the knot that tipped the first antenna and was inserting her needle to start  the second one. “We encountered him at Nottingham during our progress through middle England,” she began. “In those days he was their sheriff’s master at arms, and a cruel and dangerous man to all accounts.” Her voice lowered as she delivered a crushing blow. “It was whispered that he’d killed the woman he loved.”

Jehane choked back an exclamation of horror as an icy current spiked her veins.  
She should have known what he was capable of. The evidence was clear in the quick temper, the ruthless way he'd fought her; the sneering putdowns, the underhand moves. Then there was his sinister hold over her children; the Virgin be praised, he had vowed never to speak to them again, and as far as she could judge from the way they moped about these days, he had kept his word. But how far could she rely on the good faith of a man like that?

 _I’d rather die than be with you_...

Could this be what had brought him to it? Those few short words, spoken in passion from the lips of one he held dear? She Jehane, had witnessed for herself the towering rage they'd aroused in him; yet in honest retrospect, his white-hot anger had been laced with unbearable pain.

But the lady Adela had not completed her tale. “They plotted to separate my lady from her retinue, then shame her into relinquishing the lion’s share of her local holdings; despoil her if need be to force her compliance. We women were seized and confined to a chamber, unbeknownst to the rest of her train, who were feasted all night with rich meats and flowing wine.”

The craven bastards! This confirmed and expanded what she had learned from Thibault of Laroquebrou at the abbey guesthouse in Tours. At the time she’d thought this was how he’d contrived to come by the manor; a little extra something just for himself, though the Duchess Eleanor’s revelations had disproved these suspicions at least.

Her guest was smoothing her completed bee with a thumb, looking it over with a critical eye. “He was a man with a grudge against the world, all right, and much feared. Rumour had it he’d lost home and family, driven from his rightful lands by a mob when scarce out of boyhood.” She searched her casket again, settling on a skein of windflower blue and contemplating it with a distant air. “In his thirst for revenge and the status and power he had lost,” she resumed eventually, “he had bound himself to a cruel and venal man.”

 _I learned at the feet of a ma_ s _ter_...

Jehane’s mind flew back to that ride through the streets of Avallon, and his closed expression as he confessed how he’d learned to cheat and manipulate.

But Adela was speaking again, still winding the lustrous blue strand round her forefinger. “Truth to tell, Lady Jehane, by the time we crossed his path, he was like some wild beast in a trap, ready to gnaw off his own foot in order to escape.” She took up her needle again. “You may imagine my distress when I learned my lady had perforce spent the night alone with him, locked in her chamber. Yet by the Holy Mother’s grace, he had offered her no insult; I had that from her own lips as the door was opened to us at last, and she as calm and serene as ever she was.”

She began to draw the newly threaded silk through the soft wool. “Indeed,”she added. “Our Steward Cambrai saw them break their fast together in perfect amity, much to the sheriff’s displeasure. Why, with my own eyes I watched them stroll out of the castle gates side by side, as if they had known one another half their lives.”

Jehane found herself reflecting that Lys must have been possessed of the patience and determination of a saint, spiced with not a little guile. How else could she have established a rapport with a man like that; extricated herself from the conspiracy with her honour intact? And had the vulnerability of her last days caused her to imagine some better part of him, something that could be nurtured by the restoration of a measure of what he had lost; lands of his own, and the chance to enjoy them, as the Duchess Eleanor had intimated?

“And now he has her manor, and her stallion too,” she said aloud, staring down at the gaudy pink jewel in her hand. Her betrothal ring, she thought again with a grimace. In time, would he seek vengeance for that, coming to claim Vignoles as well, as Master Laurent Martin had tried and failed to do? But there was something else the minstrel had told her, something concerning the great black horse. “Is it true he rescued the beast from drowning in a flash flood?”

“Ebène is here?” the younger woman asked, then she nodded. “So I was led to believe.” She snipped off her blue silk thread and gave an apologetic smile. “Though I did not witness the incident for myself. Our parties had become separated as a great tempest descended on the land but Master Cambrai was there and described it all to me; how he risked his life to bring the creature safe out of the waters of a stream in spate. And then, when her strength failed her, he carried my lady for miles through mud and mire till they reached a small manor of hers where the rest of us had sought shelter from the storm...”

She paused, stroking the unfinished band of broderie with a thoughtful air, as if reliving something from her own part in those challenging times. Jehane waited, convinced her guest had been on the point of saying more; indeed, she opened her mouth as if to speak. Then she closed it and threaded her needle again. “Though I never heard her speak of him once the shire was left behind,” she concluded at length, as a trail of tiny forget-me-nots sprang up beneath her hands. ”By then her mind was turning to other things…”

Jehane sobered as she acknowledged the grim nature of what those _other things_ had been. Then her thoughts returned to the many-faceted enigma that was the _routier_. Fleeting splinters of light in deep shadow; fierce and cruel, with a hint of something other, deeply hidden and jealously guarded from the world...

She waited again, still sure there was more to the story than her guest had said thus far, but the sound of slow footsteps brought the conversation to a close. Dame Constanza was hobbling in, seeking their opinion on the subject of supper and doing her utmost to conceal the fact


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to all - I’m posting and running today.

**Chapter Thirty-nine.**

**The Manor of Li Rossinholetz.**

**Gisborne.**

It was well past noon on a cloudless September day and the smell of fresh-cut timber was strong.

Gisborne prowled round the half-built stable extension, kicking crisp blond curls of wood out of his way and checking for weak joints and carelessly butted planks. Winters were milder here in Burgundy than they were in Middle England. Nevertheless, it seemed wise for the more vulnerable of his stock to be under cover during the more inclement months, while the work was best done now, before the grapes were ready to harvest and the dawn-to-dusk grind of the _vendange_ began.

His steward was confined to his cottage, recovering from a particularly virulent bout of fever, so he’d judged that a visit from the lord of the manor himself was due if there was to be no slacking or inferior work.

Satisfied at last that all was as it should be, he gave the order for the midday break. Leaning against a finished wall, he looked on idly as the simple food was spread out. Rounds of cheese and good bread rested on kerchiefs, together with bunches of unripe grapes; cullings from the vines so the remaining fruit could grow plump and sweet. Small and tart, they were a popular addition to the meal.

He glanced up at the sound of voices, the hesitant invitations to join them catching him unawares, but he brushed them aside, acknowledging the gesture with a brusque nod. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of resin and swirling dust motes; fresher air and an inspection of his horses were suddenly more appealing to him.

He was conscious of a feeling of rare content as he strolled along the path, heading for the paddock. The sun was pleasantly warm on his shoulders, while the intermittent breath of a light breeze was sweet after the stink of sweat and sawdust in the stable block. It was a further source of satisfaction that he’d been spared all contact with the neighbouring manor of late. There were visitors from Dijon, he’d heard; whoever they were, he owed them his gratitude, for they’d kept the lady Jehane and her feral offspring occupied and out of his way. Perhaps her temper would be the sweeter for the company, what with Master Martin out of the picture and the constant threat of FitzAubin and his cronies no longer hanging over her head. And all of that was my doing, he thought with a grin, enjoying the irony of it.

 _It was nothing less than you owed her_ , remarked the voice in his head. _My parfit gentil knight_.

Now where had that come from? He must be imagining things again.

 _And you perfectly sober today_ , amics...

“You tell me where altruism has got me more often than not!” he demanded, aggrieved, shaking off the memory of that lance-straight back and pale but resolute face as the lady of Vignoles relinquished her mare to him; she'd defended her cause before the men from Auxerre with the same ruthless self-control.

Whatever the case, he’d had reasons enough of his own to rid the neighbourhood of vermin; not to mention the possibility of future trumped-up claims on his lands from Master Laurent Martin. Now he was free to firm up his plans for some kind of future here at Li Rossinholetz; with the extended stables taking shape, there should be time to make a start on the water mill before winter set in.

It still surprised him sometimes to find himself thinking this way.

Down at the paddock, he hoisted his long body to sit on the top rail and take stock of his slowly growing herd. The yearlings he’d purchased in Avallon were thriving under his watchful eye, along with the beasts from the market at Nolay. What was once a motley collection of horseflesh from a robber band was settling down as well. Already sides were filling out; eyes  brightening, galls and saddle sores healing clean.

If only the human factor was as simple to handle as the livestock. The Locksley peasantry would never have dared invite him to sit and eat with them; the familiarity of the village men just now had discomfited him, making him wonder if he was growing soft in his old age.

_Rank has always meant less to me than courtesy..._

The voice of their late lady was disposed to be talkative today. A rare and easy grace had marked her dealings with the lower orders; an old tirewoman’s knees were not beneath her notice, nor the work of kitchen drudges who had prepared her food. She was gone now and another set up in authority on her treasured manor, but her legacy lingered for the tenants of Li Rossinholetz.

Well, it had worked in his favour so far, he told himself with a tight half-smile; it made good sense to allow things to continue as they’d done in her day. With the steadying presence of Reynault at his side, he’d got more out of his tenants than he’d done with a heavy whip-hand back in Nottingham. A united and efficient _demesne_ meant prosperous villagers, which made for greater tax revenue in the end; something Vaisey had refused to understand. And when the situation changed, as bitter experience told him it would, there was still enough in him of the ruthless master at arms. Hadn’t he demonstrated as much with de Bèze and all the others who had challenged his claim?

Yes, this quiet country existence was a far cry from his life as the Sheriff of Nottingham’s enforcer; lands to call his own, an income and a purpose, the death he’d once sought so eagerly no longer a much-desired goal.  It was a modest enterprise that he was building here at Li Rossinholetz; worlds apart from where his ambition once hoped to stretch, but honourable. From such roots the likes of William Marshall had grown; a valid observation, for all it came from that girl...

_Is it true that when you’re the lord, you can have any woman on the manor you want?_

Christ on the cross!

Well, he’d plucked that particular burr from under his saddle. Before long the irritation would fade as well...

A muffled footfall interrupted his thoughts, and he was off the fence in an instant, finding himself with a small squirming body in his grasp. He transferred his grip to a convenient ear and examined his catch; then he was thrusting the culprit away from himself with a muttered curse.

Call on the devil!

“I’m not some old serpent you know, to poison you.” Regaining her balance, Aubrey de Saint Aubin hissed and forked her fingers at him.

“No,” he snarled, “But you turn my stomach all the same.”

“You’re as bad as that old monk at Clairvaux, skulking behind his monastery walls.” The retort was spat at him with unmaidenly force. “So scared of the sight of a female, he jumped into a pond and hid.”

The story of the abbot and the icy pool was the stuff of legend. Gisborne had been likened to a number of things in his lifetime, but to be compared to the saintly and ascetic Bernard was a novel experience indeed. Setting the reflection aside, he narrowed his eyes. “I told you never to show your face round here again. I have nothing against women…” _In their place_ , came the unruly corollary, his exertions with Mélis springing to mind. “It’s the lies and deceit that disgust me. Did you even once understand the position you’ve put me in?”

 

**Aubrey.**

"I never lie.”

Aubrey drew herself up to her full height, gesturing at the borrowed homespun breeches and tunic; they felt uncomfortably tight and short today, but that couldn’t be helped. Skirts were no use to anyone at present, no matter what Maman would have said. “It’s not my fault if you jumped to conclusions.”

The Knight canted his weight over one hip, folded his arms across his chest and sneered. “Man to man, I think you said. Or does my memory deceive me?”

Man to man it had been indeed, but with the proviso of _sort of thing._ A technicality, she conceded, and a flimsy one. In spirit, he had the right of it; she had been less than honest with him.

This wasn’t going well at all.

But it was no time to stand around debating morality when every moment was a matter of life and death. Bracing her legs, she stood her ground, reining in the urge to rush at him, pummelling at his chest in frustration as the blind terror of the previous hour threatened to engulf her once again...

Thierry was often up and out with the dawn, yet today the sight of his empty truckle had engendered a sense of deep foreboding. Inside the house, an unnatural silence reigned. Berthe had been late from the village, taking advantage of Maman’s absence to stay abed for an extra hour; Dame Constanza whiffled delicately across the chamber after a night spent nursing the pains that had forced her to abandon her plans to travel on with the lady Adela’s train.

A swift inventory of the kitchen had revealed all was in perfect order; no crumbs on the trestle, no smeared knives or dirty cups and bowls. No one had broken their fast in there that morning, though half a loaf and a pot of fromage blanc had disappeared; a sign of true urgency in a hungry little squirt who could never wait a moment to stuff his face.

Aubrey’s heart had sunk further on crossing the yard. Chickens burbled on their roosts and Marguerida the cow lowed softly in the byre, yet there’d been no answering greeting from the stable where Flopears the donkey had lived in solitary splendor since noon yesterday; Maman was gone on the grey gelding, accompanying their guest as far as Vézelay, where several women from the Countess’ bower now made their home. There they would seek a companion to assist the lady Adela on her onward journey, and pray in the hilltop basilica before the sacred relics of Saint Mary Magdalene.

Aubrey had eased the heavy stable door ajar and crept inside, the feeling of dread mounting as the echoing interior drove home the fact that Flopears too was gone. This was no cause for worry in itself, she’d reminded herself fiercely; only stupid girls would panic now. Thierry had gone off on his own like this before; besides, Dame Constanza had promised to make marchpane subtleties with them after the midday meal, a castle with towers and turrets and knights on horseback like the ones in their new board game. He was certain to be back for that.

But by the time Berthe had arrived and the soup was filling the kitchen with delicious scents of chicken and pot herbs, there was still no sign of him and the memories of last night’s quarrel had been clamouring too loudly to be ignored.

“I’d have skewered the lot of them single-handed if I’d been there,” Thierry had boasted, on hearing of the fight with the robber band from Ham.

Aubrey had looked on in scorn as he illustrated the point by dashing up and down the stairs, waving his latest attempt at a wooden sword. He couldn’t even remember the first rule of swordplay; keep the tip up! “Says you,” she goaded. “You who ran away from old Grizel’s goose when she was protecting her goslings.”

Thierry had halted, puffing out his cheeks as he caught his breath. “That was last year,” he retorted, stung. “I was a baby then, Why, I bet you anything I could...” He waved his sword arm expansively, searching for something extravagant enough to bolster his claim. “...I bet I could go into those old caves at Arcy. Stay there all night, if I wanted to.”

Aubrey had taken this for another of his idle boasts, for as boasts went, it was a wild one all right. The ravages of time and water had riddled the rocks of the region with caves large and small. Some were used by shepherds as temporary shelters, others afforded convenient storage; Maman’s furniture had been squirreled away in such a one when the merchant from Auxerre had thrown it out.

Yet the caves at Arcy were a different matter by far. They extended for miles from a narrow entrance in a rocky escarpment a league or more away; an underground labyrinth of lofty chambers and narrow passages, sinkholes and bottomless lakes. Those who’d ventured over its threshold had soon come out, swearing the chill stone halls were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead men and savage beasts with a thirst for blood. Others had scoffed at such tales and gone further in, never to be seen again.

Like all children of the _Avallonais_ , high-born and low, both Thierry and Aubrey had been strictly forbidden to go near the place. Yet in his foolish need to demonstrate his courage, her idiot brother had rushed off to do just that, heedless of the fact that he could well be going to his death. And Maman would be back by nightfall. Whatever was she to say to her if he wasn't found before then? She would never forgive her, but that wouldn't matter as she'd never forgive herself.

“It’s his own stupid fault,” was the Knight’s cold verdict after she’d stammered out the situation to him. “And you’re no better than he is. Go and find someone else to pester. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

At that, he turned his back on her and strode off in the direction of the house;  Aubrey stared after him, a bleeding hole in place of her heart. She gnawed at her lip, appalled to find her eyes were stinging. All right. He was angry with her, felt deceived by her; he could have uttered the words Maman used to annihilate them at such times...

 _I am disappointed in you_...

And she’d have had to admit he was right.

Except that it was not Thierry’s fault at all; it was hers and hers alone. It was she who had goaded him; he was little and his pride easily hurt, and she had the years and the sense to have known better than that.

She’d felt sick with guilt as she squeezed into a spare set of Thierry’s clothes from the mending pile and flown to the village in search of help; only to find that everyone had gone to the fields, save for one or two greybeards and an old blind woman who would be of no use anyway. Tending the vines was a full-time job at this time of year; the slightest neglect could make the different between success and disaster, as Fabien, their vintner, had been keen to impress on them.

On she’d run to Li Rossinholetz, only to be told Master Reynault was ill in bed and she could find no one else who would stop and listen to her. Finally she’d sought the Knight, in sheer desperation and the name of what she hoped they’d once shared. Now he’d walked away, as cold and unfeeling as stone, with a sneer on his face and his eyes like shards of ice.

“Some knight you are!” she flung after him, anger and disgust overcoming her distress. “What happened to honour and protecting the weak?”

He halted and swung round, his lips parting in a grim smile. ”You read too many tales… _demoiselle_.” The last word was calculated insult, cold as a winter rattle of hail. “A knight is just a fancy word for an armed thug who does nothing that does not serve his self-interest and takes what he wants from those who are unable to defend themselves.”

His gaze locked with hers, harsh and chilling.

Then he turned away, the broad shoulders slumping in his black _chainsil_ shirt. “Christ on the cross!” Aubrey heard him mutter. “I must want my head examining.”

 

They were on the road in short order, ropes and torches bound to the saddles of two of the sturdier beasts from the paddock string. He’d be damned if he’d ride back double with a snivelling brat on the stallion, the Armed Thug had said, so Ben had been left behind in charge.

Aubrey’s rangy dun was much bigger than she was used to; her thighs ached as she straddled its broad back and the saddle chafed, but she would have died before admitting it. Indeed, it was she who pushed the pace beyond the Knight’s easy canter, driven on by frustration and fear. Eventually she drew rein under a stand of trees to wait for him, grinding her teeth at the delay. He said nothing as he rode up; instead he took a leisurely gulp at his costrel before resealing it and tossing it to her with a cocked brow. Then he galloped off, leaving her in his dust.

At long last they were halting before the wall of rock that held the entrance to the caves. The surroundings were deserted; there was no answer to Aubrey’s anxious call or the Knight’s more impressive halloo -nothing beyond the whisper of a wandering breeze in the leaves of a stunted tree and the strident hum of cicadas in the grass.

“Are you sure he came here?” the Knight asked, after calling again. “I don’t see that donkey of yours anywhere.”

“He must have gone in too deep to hear us. Flopears will be around here somewhere; he never goes far away.” Aubrey was clambering down from her horse to inspect the terrain. Suddenly she knelt, parting the parched grass. “I was right! Look. Donkey droppings.”

She ran to the cave mouth and called again, flinching as a barrage of ghostly voices assailed her, while the clammy fingers of incorporeal hands clutched at her face. Exactly as the tales had told! “It’s only the echo,” she mumbled to herself, shamefaced, remembering the eerie ring of Vignoles with all the fancy furniture gone. As for the spectral digits, they were nothing but eddies of cooler air from inside.

“I’m going in,” she announced, spinning on her heel as she heard the Knight’s footsteps behind her. And suddenly she was fighting for balance, her feet slipping from under her on the damp scree, and she was falling, arms flailing…

“ **WAIT**!”

The command was still rebounding from the rugged stone interior as he seized her by the scruff and hauled her up. “Out of the way,” he barked. “I don’t want two whingeing brats to deal with.” Releasing his hold, he struck a flint against the cavern wall and lit one of the torches he’d thrust through his belt. “Go on. Make yourself useful and see to the horses. I’ll go and get him out.”


End file.
